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TALES  OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


Dennis,  lying  under  the  telegraph  line,  his  left 
hand  still  grasped  the  instrument"  (page  220.) 


TALES  OF  THE 
TELEGRAPH 

The  Story  of  a  Telegrapher's  Life 
and  Adventures  in  Railroad 
Commercial  and  Mil- 
itary Work 


BY 


JASPER  EWING   BRADY 

1st  Lieutenant  iQth  United  States  Infantry 
Late  Captain  Signal  Corps  U.  S.  Volunteers 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY  &  McCLURE  CO. 
1899 


COPYRIGHT,  1898,  1899, 

BY 

S.  S.  McCtuRE  Co. 
COPYRIGHT,  1899, 

BY 
DOUBLEDAY  &  McCtURE  Co. 


To  the 

Telegraphers  of  the  Country 

this  little  book  is  sincerely  and  affectionately 

dedicated. 


2072258 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Learning  the  Business — My  First  Office i 

II.  An  Encounter  with  Train  Robbers 1 1 

III.  In  a  Wreck 12 

IV.  A  Woman  Operator  Who  Saved  a  Train 25 

V.  A  Night   Office  in   Texas— A  Stuttering  De- 

spatcher ,  33 

VI.  Blue  Field,  Arizona,  and  an  Indian  Scrimmage  42 

VII.  Taking    a  Whirl    at   Commercial   Work — My 

First  Attempt — The  Galveston  Fire 52 

VIII.  Sending  a  Message  Perforce — Recognizing  an 

Old  Friend  by  His  Stuff 62 

IX.  Bill  Bradley,  Gambler  and  Gentleman 68 

X.  The  Death  of  Jim  Cartwright— Chased  off  a 

Wire  by  a  Woman 80 

XI.  Witnessing   a   Marriage  by  Wire — Beating  a 

Pool  Room— Sparring  at  Long  Range 87 

XII.  How  a  Smart  Operator  was  Squelched— The 

Galveston  Flood 96 

XIII.  Sending  My  First  Order 104 

XIV.  Running  Trains  by  Telegraph — How  It  is  Done  III 


viii  Contents 

XV.  An  Old  Despatcher's  Mistake— My  First  Trick  125 

XVI.  A  General  Strike — A  Locomotive  Engineer  for 

a  Day 137 

XVII.  Chief  Despatcher— An   Inspection   Tour— Big 

River  Wreck 147 

XVIII.  A  Promotion  by  Favor  and  Its  Results 160 

XIX.  Jacking  up  a  Negligent  Operator— A  Convict 

Operator— Dick,  the  Plucky  Call  Boy 168 

XX.  An  Episode  of  Sentiment 185 

XXI.  The  Military  Operator— A   Fake   Report  that 

Nearly  Caused  Trouble 192 

XXII.  Private  Dennis  Hogan,  Hero 203 

XXIII.  The  Commission  Won— In  a  General  Strike. .  222 

XXIV.  Experiences  as  a  Government  Censor  of  Tele- 

graph    237 

XXV.  More  Censorship 246 

XXVI.  Censorship  Concluded , 257 

XXVII.  Conclusion 269 


List  of  Illustrations 


".   .  .    Dennis,  lying  under  the  telegraph  line.     His  left 
hand  still  grasped  the  instrument  " Frontispiece 

TO  FACE 

Facsimile  of  a  completed  train-despatcher's  order i 

"  Two  of  the  men  tied  my  hands  in  front  of  me  " 16 

"After    many    efforts    I     finally    reached    the    lowest 

cross-arm  " 30 

"  One  of  them  picked  up  the  lantern,  and  swaggering 

over  to  where  I  sat  all  trembling    .    .    ." 38 

"  He  looked   at   me   ...   then    catching    me  by  the 

collar   .   .   ." loo 

".    .   .   Half  lying  on  the  table,  face  downward,  dead  by 

his  own  hand  " 128 

"  '  See  here,  who  is  going  to  pull  this  train  ?  '  " 144 

"Are  you  not  doing  it  just  because  I  am  a  woman  ?  " . . .  190 


FACSIMILE  OF  A  COMPLETED  ORDER   AS  ENTERED  IN  THE  DE- 
SPATCHER'S  ORDER-BOOK 


Tales  of  the  Telegraph 


CHAPTER  I 

LEARNING   THE   BUSINESS— MY  FIRST   OFFICE 

SEATED  in  sumptuously  furnished  palace  cars, 
annihilating  space  at  the  rate  of  sixty  miles  an 
hour,  but  few  passengers  ever  give  a  thought  to 
the  telegraph  operators  of  the  road  stuck  away  in 
towers  or  in  dingy  little  depots,  in  swamps,  on 
the  tops  of  mountains,  or  on  the  bald  prairies  and 
sandy  deserts  of  the  west;  and  yet,  these  self- 
same telegraph  operators  are  a  very  important  ad- 
junct to  the  successful  operation  of  the  road,  and 
a  single  error  on  the  part  of  one  of  them  might  re- 
sult in  the  loss  of  many  lives  and  thousands  of 
dollars. 

The  whole  length  of  the  railroad  from  starting 

point  to  terminus  is  literally  under  the  eyes  of  the 

train  despatcher.     By  means  of  reports  sent  in 

by  hundreds  of  different  operators,  he  knows  the 

i 


2  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

exact  location  of  all  trains  at  all  times,  the  num- 
ber of  "loads"  and  "empties"  in  each  train,  the 
number  of  cars  on  each  siding,  the  number  of 
passing  tracks  and  their  capacity,  the  capabilities 
of  the  different  engines,  the  gradients  of  the  road, 
the  condition  of  the  road-bed,  and,  above  all,  he 
knows  the  personal  characteristics  of  every  con- 
ductor and  engineer  on  the  road.  In  fact  if  there 
is  one  man  of  more  importance  than  another  on  a 
railroad  it  is  the  train  despatcher.  During  his 
trick  of  eight  hours  he  is  the  autocrat  of  the  road, 
and  his  will  in  the  running  of  trains  is  absolute. 
Therefore  despatchers  are  chosen  with  very  spe- 
cial regard  for  their  fitness  for  the  position.  They 
must  be  expert  telegraphers,  quick  at  figures,  and 
above  all  they  must  be  as  cool  as  ice,  have  nerves 
of  steel,  and  must  be  capable  of  grasping  a  trying 
situation  the  minute  an  emergency  arises.  An  old 
despatcher  once  said  to  me :  "Sooner  or  later  a  de- 
spatcher, if  he  sticks  to  the  business,  will  have  his 
smash-up,  and  then  down  goes  a  reputation  which 
possibly  he  has  been  years  in  building  up,  and  his 
name  is  inscribed  on  the  roll  of  '  has-beens.' " 

Before  the  despatcher  comes  the  operator,  and 
the  old  Biblical  saying,  "Many  are  called  but  few 
are  chosen,"  is  well  illustrated  by  the  small  num- 
ber of  good  despatchers  that  are  found ;  it  is  easy 


Learning  the  Business  3 

enough  to  find  excellent  operators,  but  a  first- 
class  despatcher  is  a  rarity  among  them. 

I  learned  telegraphy  some  fifteen  or  sixteen 
years  ago  at  a  school  away  out  in  western  Kansas. 
After  I  had  been  there  three  or  four  months,  I 
was  the  star  of  the  class,  and  imagined  that  the 
spirit  of  Professor  Morse  had  been  reincarnated 
in  me.  No  wire  was  too  swift  for  me  to  work, 
no  office  too  great  for  me  to  manage;  in  fact 
visions  of  a  superintendency  of  telegraph  flitted 
before  my  eyes.  Such  institutions  as  this  school 
are  very  correctly  named  "ham  factories." 

During  my  stay  at  the  school  I  formed  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  night  operator  at  the  depot  and 
it  was  my  wont  to  spend  most  of  my  nights  there 
picking  up  odds  and  ends  of  information.  For 
my  own  benefit  I  used  to  copy  everything  that 
came  along;  but  the  young  man  in  charge  never 
left  me  entirely  alone.  Night  operators  at  all  small 
stations  have  to  take  care  of  their  own  lamps  and 
fires,  sweep  out,  handle  baggage,  and,  in  short,  be 
porter  as  well  as  operator,  and  for  the  privilege  of 
being  allowed  to  stay  about  I  used  to  do  this  work 
for  the  night  man  at  the  office  in  question.  His 
name  was  Harry  Burgess  and  he  was  as  good  a 
man  as  ever  sat  in  front  of  a  key.  Some  few 
weeks  after  this  he  was  transferred  to  a  day  of- 


4  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

fice  up  the  road  and  by  his  help  I  was  made  night 
operator  in  his  stead.  Need  I  say  how  proud  I 
felt  when  I  received  a  message  from  the  Chief 
Despatcher  telling  me  to  report  for  duty  that 
night?  I  think  I  was  the  proudest  man,  or  boy 
rather,  on  this  earth.  Just  think!  Night  opera- 
tor, porter  and  baggage-man,  working  from  seven 
o'clock  in  the  evening  until  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  receiving  the  magnificent  sum  of 
forty  dollars  per  month !  It  was  enough  to  make 
my  bosom  swell  with  pride  and  it's  a  wonder  I 
didn't  burst. 

Heretofore,  I  had  had  Burgess  to  fall  back  upon 
when  I  was  copying  messages  or  orders,  but  now 
I  was  alone  and  the  responsibility  was  all  mine. 
I  managed  to  get  through  the  first  night  very  well, 
because  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  take  a  few  "red" 
commercial  messages,  "O.  S."  the  trains  and  load 
ten  big  sample  trunks  on  No.  2.  The  trains  were 
all  on  time  and  consequently  there  were  no  or- 
ders. I  was  proud  of  my  success  and  went  off  duty 
at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  with  a  feeling 
that  my  services  were  well  nigh  indispensable  to 
the  road,  and  if  anything  were  to  happen  to  me, 
receivers  would  surely  have  to  be  appointed. 

The  second  night  everything  went  smoothly  un- 
til towards  eleven  o'clock,  when  the  despatcher 


Learning  the  Business  5 

began  to  call  "MN,"  and  gave  the  signal  "9." 
Now  the  signal  "9"  means  "Train  Orders,"  and 
takes  precedence  over  everything  else  on  the  wire. 
The  situation  was  anything  but  pleasant  for  me, 
because  I  had  never  yet,  on  my  own  responsibility, 
taken  a  train  order,  and  I  stood  in  a  wholesome 
fear  of  the  results  that  might  accrue  from  any  er- 
ror of  mine.  So  I  didn't  answer  the  despatcher 
at  once  as  I  should  have  done  because  I  hoped  he 
would  get  tired  of  calling  me  and  would  tackle 
"OG,"  and  give  him  the  order.  But  he  didn't. 
He  just  kept  on  calling  me,  increasing  his  speed 
all  the  time.  In  sheer  desperation,  I  went  out  on 
the  platform  for  five  minutes  and  stamped  around 
to  keep  warm,  hoping  all  the  time  he  would  stop 
when  he  found  I  did  not  answer.  But  when  I 
returned  instead  of  calling  me  on  one  wire,  he  had 
his  operator  calling  me  on  the  commercial  line 
while  he  was  pounding  away  on  the  railroad  wire. 
At  the  rate  those  two  sounders  were  going  they 
sounded  to  me  like  the  crack  of  doom  and  I  was 
becoming  powerfully  warm.  I  finally  mustered  up 
courage  and  answered  him. 

The  first  thing  the  despatcher  said  was : 

"Where  in  h — 1  have  you  been?" 

I  didn't  think  that  was  a  very  nice  thing  for  him 
to  say,  and  he  fired  it  at  me  so  fast  I  could  hardly 


6  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

read  it,  so  I  simply  replied,  "Out  fixing  my  batte- 
ries." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "your  batteries  will  need  fix- 
ing when  I  get  through  with  you.  Now  copy  3." 

"Copy  3,"  means  to  take  three  copies  of  the  or- 
der that  is  to  follow,  so  I  grabbed  my  manifold 
order-book  and  stylus  and  prepared  to  copy.  There 
is  a  rule  printed  in  large  bold  type  in  all  railroad 
time-cards  which  says,  "Despatchers,  in  sending 
train  orders  to  operators,  will  accommodate  their 
speed  to  the  abilities  of  the  operators.  In  all  cases 
they  will  send  plainly  and  distinctly."  If  the  de- 
spatcher  had  sent  according  to  my  ability  just  then 
he  would  have  sent  that  order  by  train  mail.  But 
instead,  from  the  very  beginning,  he  fired  it 
at  me  so  fast,  that  before  I  had  started  to 
take  it  he  was  away  down  in  the  body  of  it.  I  had 
written  down  only  the  order  number  and  date, 
when  I  broke  and  said,  "G.  A.  To."  That  made 
him  madder  than  ever  and  he  went  at  me  again 
with  increased  violence  the  sounder  seeming  like 
the  roll  of  a  drum.  I  think  I  broke  him  about  ten 
times  and  finally  he  said,  "For  heaven's  sake  go 
wake  up  the  day  man.  You're  nothing  but  a 
ham."  Strangely  enough  I  could  take  all  of  his 
nasty  remarks  without  any  trouble  while  the  or- 
der almost  completely  stumped  me.  However,  I 


Learning  the  Business  7 

finally  succeeded  in  putting  it  all  down,  repeated  it 
back  to  him,  and  received  his  "O.  K." 

When  the  train  arrived  the  conductor  and  engi- 
neer came  in  the  office  and  I  gave  them  the  order. 
The  conductor  glanced  at  it  for  a  moment  and 
then  said  with  a  broad  grin,  "Say,  kid,  which 
foot  did  you  use  in  copying  this  ?"  My  copy  wasn't 
very  clear,  but  finally  he  deciphered  it,  and  they 
both  signed  their  names,  the  despatcher  gave  me 
the  "complete,"  and  they  left.  As  soon  as  the 
train,  which  was  No.  22,  a  livestock  express,  had 
departed,  I  made  my  O.  S.  report,  and  then  heaved 
a  big  sigh  of  relief. 

Scarcely  had  the  tail-lights  disappeared  across 
the  bridge  and  around  the  bend,  when  the  de- 
spatcher called  again  and  said,  "For  God's  sake 
stop  that  train." 

I  said,  "I  can't.    She's  gone." 

"Well,"  he  snapped  back,  "there's  a  good 
chance  for  a  fine  smash-up  this  night." 

That  scared  me  almost  out  of  my  wits,  and  I 
looked  at  my  copy  of  the  order.  But  it  read  all 
right,  and  yet  I  felt  mighty  creepy.  About  thirty 
minutes  afterwards,  I  heard  a  heavy  step  on  the 
platform  and  in  a  second  the  hind  brakeman  came 
tramping  in,  and  cheerfully  saluted  me  with, 
"Well,  I  reckon  you've  raised  h — 1  to-night.  21 


8  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

and  22  are  up  against  each  other  hard  about  a  mile 
and  a  half  east  of  here.  They  met  on  a  curve  and 
engines,  box-cars,  livestock  and  freight  are  piled 
up  in  fine  shape." 

"Any  one  killed  ?"  I  asked  with  a  blanched  face 
and  sinking  heart. 

"Naw,  no  one  is  exactly  killed,  but  one  engineer 
and  a  fireman  are  pretty  badly  scalded,  and 
'Shorty'  Jones,  our  head  man,  has  a  broken  leg 
caused  by  jumping.  You'd  better  tell  the  de- 
spatcher." 

Visions  of  the  penitentiary  for  criminal  neglect 
danced  before  my  disordered  brain ;  all  my  knowl- 
edge of  telegraphy  fled ;  I  was  weak  in  the  knees, 
sick  at  heart,  and  as  near  a  complete  wreck  as  a 
man  could  be.  But  something  had  to  be  done,  so 
I  finally  told  the  despatcher  that  Nos.  21  and  22 
were  in  the  ditch,  and  he  snapped  back,  "D — n 
it,  I've  been  expecting  it,  and  have  ordered  the 
wrecking  outfit  out  from  Watsego.  You  turn 
your  red-light  and  hold  everything  that  comes 
along.  In  the  meantime  go  wake  up  the  day 
man.  I  want  an  operator  there,  and  not  a  ham." 

When  the  day  man  came  in,  half  dressed,  he 
said,  "Well,  what  the  devil  is  the  matter? 

Speech  had  entirely  left  me  by  this  time,  so  I 
simply  pointed  to  the  order,  and  the  brakeman 


Learning  the  Business  9 

told  him  the  rest.  Never  in  all  my  life  have  I 
spent  such  a  night  as  that.  The  day  man  regaled 
me  with  charming  little  incidents,  about  men  he 
knew,  who,  for  having  been  criminally  negligent, 
had  been  shot  by  infuriated  engineers  or  had  been 
sent  up  for  ten  years.  He  seemed  to  take  a  fiend- 
ish delight  in  telling  me  these  things  and  my  dis- 
comfiture was  great.  I  would  have  run  away  if 
I  hadn't  been  too  weak.  About  seven  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  after  a  night  of  misery,  he  patroniz- 
ingly told  me,  that  it  wasn't  my  fault  at  all ;  the 
despatcher  had  given  a  "lap  order,"  and  that  the 
blame  was  on  him.  Well!  the  reaction  was  as 
bad,  almost,  as  the  first  feeling  of  horror.  I  went 
home  and  after  a  light  breakfast,  retired  to  bed, 
but  not  to  sleep,  for  every  time  I  would  close  my 
eyes,  visions  of  wrecks,  penitentiaries,  dead  men 
and  ruined  homes  came  crowding  upon  my  disor- 
dered brain. 

About  ten  o'clock  they  sent  for  me  to  come  to 
the  office.  I  went  over  and  Webster  the  agent 
said  the  superintendent  wanted  to  see  me.  I  had 
never  seen  the  superintendent  and  he  seemed  to 
me  to  be  about  as  far  off  as  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  but  I  screwed  up  my  courage  and 
went  in.  I  saw  a  kindly-looking  gentleman 
seated  before  Webster's  desk,  but  I  was  too  much 


io  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

frightened  to  speak  and  just  stood  there  like  a 
bump  on  a  log.  Presently,  Mr.  Brink,  the  super- 
intendent, turned  to  Webster  and  said,  "I  wonder 
why  that  night  man  doesn't  come?" 

1  tremblingly  replied,  "I  am  the  night  man,  sir." 
He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  and  smilingly 
said,  "Why,  bless  my  soul,  my  lad!  I  thought  you 
were  a  messenger  boy."  He  then  asked  me  for 
my  story  of  the  wreck.  When  I  had  given  it  he 
seemed  satisfied,  and  gave  me  lots  of  good  advice  ; 
but  in  the  end  he  said  I  was  too  young  to  have  the 
position,  and  I  was  discharged.  But  he  kindly 
added,  that  in  a  few  years  he  would  be  glad  to 
have  me  come  back  on  the  road,  after  I  had  ac- 
quired more  experience.  The  next  day  I  re- 
turned to  school. 


CHAPTER  II 

AN    ENCOUNTER    WITH    TRAIN    ROBBERS 

MY  FIRST  attempt  at  holding  an  office  had 
proved  such  a  flat  and  dismal  failure  that  I  thought 
I  should  never  have  the  heart  to  apply  for  another. 
I  worked  faithfully  in  the  school  for  about  a 
month,  and  then  the  fever  to  try  again  took  hold 
of  me.  I  knew  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  apply  to 
my  former  superintendent,  Mr.  Brink,  so  I  wrote 
to  Mr.  R.  B.  Bunnell,  Superintendent  of  Tele- 
graph of  the  P.  Q.  &  X.  Railroad  at  Kansas  City, 
Missouri,  saying  I  was  an  expert  operator  and 
desired  a  position  on  his  road.  Mr.  Bunnell  must 
have  been  laboring  under  a  hypnotic  spell,  for  by 
return  mail  he  wrote,  enclosing  me  a  pass  to  Al- 
freda,  Kansas,  and  directing  me  to  assume  charge 
of  the  night  office  at  that  point  at  the  magnificent 
salary  of  $37.50  per  month.  This  was  a  slight 
decrease  from  my  former  salary,  but  I  didn't  care. 
I  wanted  a  chance  to  redeem  myself  and  I  felt  con- 
fident I  could  be  more  successful  in  my  second  at- 
tempt. So  I  packed  my  few  belongings,  bade 
good-bye  to  the  school  forever,  and  away  I  went. 


1 2  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

When  I  left  "MN,"  I  said  nothing  to  any  one 
about  my  destination,  and  I  did  not  know  a  thing 
about  Alfreda,  except  that  it  was  near  the  border 
line  between  Kansas  and  Colorado.  The  brake- 
man  on  the  train  in  talking  to  me  told  me  it  was  a 
very  pleasant  place ;  but  when  he  said  so  I  fancied 
I  could  detect  a  sarcastic  ring  in  his  voice, 
and  I  was  in  no  doubt  about  it  when  I  arrived  and 
saw  what  a  desolate,  dreary  place  Alfreda  was. 
The  only  things  in  sight  were  a  water-tank,  a 
pump-house  and  the  telegraph  office;  and  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  that  office.  It  was  simply 
the  bed  of  a  box-car,  taken  off  the  trucks  and  set 
down  with  one  end  towards  the  track.  A  small 
platform,  two  windows,  a  door,  and  the  signal 
board  perched  high  on  a  pole  completed  the  outfit. 

I  arrived  at  six-thirty  in  the  morning  and  there 
wasn't  a  living  soul  in  sight.  An  hour  later,  a 
big  broad  shouldered  Irishman  who  proved  to  be 
the  pumper,  came  ambling  along  on  a  railroad  ve- 
locipede. He  looked  at  me  for  a  minute,  and 
after  I  had  made  myself  known  he  grinned  and 
said,  "Well,  I  hopes  as  how  ye  will  loike  the  place. 
Burke,  the  man  who  was  here  afore  ye,  got  scared 
off  by  thramps,  and  I  reckon  he's  not  stopped  run- 
nin'  yit."  Fine  introduction  wasn't  it? 

I  found  there  was  no  day  operator  and  the  only 


Encounter  with  Train  Robbers      1 3 

house  around  was  the  section  house,  two  miles  up 
the  track.  The  operator  and  pumper  boarded 
there  with  the  section  boss;  but  the  railroad  com- 
pany was  magnanimous  enough  to  furnish  a  ve- 
locipede for  their  use  in  going  to  and  from  the 
station.  How  I  felt  the  first  night,  stuck  away 
out  there  in  that  box-car,  two  miles  from  the 
nearest  house  and  twelve  miles  from  the  nearest 
town,  I  must  leave  to  the  imagination.  My  heart 
sank  and  I  had  many  misgivings,  in  fact,  I  was 
scared  to  death,  but  I  set  my  teeth  hard  and 
determined  to  do  my  best,  with  the  hope  that  I 
might  be  promoted  to  a  better  office.  I  did  win 
that  promotion  but  I  wouldn't  go  through  my  ex- 
periences again  for  the  whole  road. 

One  night  after  I  had  been  working  there  about 
a  month,  I  went  to  my  office  as  usual  at  seven 
o'clock.  It  was  a  black  night  threatening  a  big 
storm.  The  pumper  had  not  gone  home  as  yet 
and  he  remarked,  that  it  was  "goin'  to  be  a  woild 
night,"  but  he  hoped  "the  whistlin'  av  the  wind 
would  be  after  kaping  me  company,"  and  with 
that  he  jumped  on  the  velocipede,  and  off  he  went. 

I  didn't  much  relish  the  idea  of  the  storm,  for  I 
knew  the  reputation  of  Kansas  as  a  cyclone  state, 
and  my  box-car  office  was  not  well  adapted  to 
stand  a  hurricane.  However,  I  went  inside,  and 


1 4  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

after  lighting  my  lamps,  sat  down  and  wrote 
letters  and  read,  when  I  was  not  taking  train 
orders.  This  office  was  kept  up  solely  because  it 
was  a  convenient  place  to  deliver  orders  to  freight 
trains  at  night  when  they  stopped  for  water. 

About  twelve-thirty  in  the  morning  my  door 
opened  suddenly,  and  a  man  stepped  quickly  in. 
I  was  startled  because  this  was  almost  the  only 
man  except  the  pumper  and  the  train  crews  that 
had  been  there  since  I  came.  Once  in  a  while  a 
stray  tramp  had  gone  through,  but  this  man  was 
not  a  tramp.  He  wore  a  long  overcoat,  buttoned 
to  his  chin,  with  the  collar  turned  up.  A  slouch 
hat  pulled  well  down  over  his  eyes  so  far  concealed 
his  face  that  his  features  were  scarcely  visible.  He 
came  over  to  my  desk  and  gruffly  asked,  "What 
time  is  there  a  passenger  train  east  to-night?" 

I  answered  that  one  went  through  at  half  past 
one,  the  Overland  Flyer,  but  it  did  not  stop  at 
Alfreda.  Quick  as  a  flash  he  pulled  a  revolver 
and  poking  it  in  my  face,  said,  "Young  man,  you 
turn  your  red-light  and  stop  that  train  or  I'll  make 
a  vacancy  in  this  office  mighty  d d  quick." 

The  longer  I  gazed  down  the  barrel  of  that  re- 
volver the  bigger  it  grew,  and  it  looked  to  me  as  if 
it  was  loaded  with  buck-shot  to  the  muzzle. 
When  it  had  grown  to  about  the  size  of  a  gatling 


Encounter  with  Train  Robbers      15 

gun  (and  it  didn't  take  long  to  do  it),  I  concluded 
that  "discretion  was  the  better  part  of  valor,"  and 
reached  up  and  turned  my  red-light.  Meanwhile 
the  door  opened  again,  and  three  more  men-came 
in.  They  were  masked  and  the  minute  I  saw 
them  I  knew  they  were  going  to  make  an  attempt 
to  hold  up  the  Overland  Flyer.  Often  this  train 
carried  large  amounts  of  bullion  and  currency 
east,  and  I  supposed  they  had  heard  that  there  was 
a  shipment  to  go  through  that  night. 

I  was  standing  with  my  back  to  the  table,  and 
just  then  I  heard  the  despatcher  say  that  the  Flyer 
was  thirty  minutes  late  from  the  west.  I  put  my 
hands  quietly  behind  me  and  let  the  right  rest  on 
the  key.  I  then  carefully  opened  the  key  and  had 
just  begun  to  speak  to  the  despatcher  when  one  of 
the  men  suspected  me  and  said  to  the  leader,  "Bill, 
watch  that  little  cuss.  He's  monkeying  with  the 
instrument  and  may  give  them  warning." 

I  stopped,  closed  the  key,  and  was  trying  to 
look  unconcerned,  when  "Bill,"  said  that  "to  stop 
all  chances  of  further  trouble,"  they  would  bind 
and  gag  me.  Thereupon  two  of  the  men  tied  my 
hands  in  front  of  me,  bound  my  legs  securely,  and 
thrust  a  villainously  dirty  gag  in  my  mouth. 
When  this  was  done,  "Bill"  said,  "Throw  him 
across  those  blamed  instruments  so  they  will 


1 6  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

keep  quiet."  They  flung  me  upon  the  table,  face 
downwards,  so  that  the  relay  was  just  under  my 
stomach,  and  of  course  my  weight  against  the 
armature  of  the  relay  stopped  the  clicking  of  the 
sounder.  As  luck  would  have  it,  my  left  hand  was 
in  such  a  position  that  it  just  touched  the  key,  and 
I  found  I  could  move  the  hand  slightly.  So  I 
opened  the  key  and  pretended  to  be  struggling 
quite  a  little.  The  leader  came  over  and  giving 
me  a  good  stiff  punch  in  the  ribs,  said  with  an 
oath,  "You  keep  quiet  or  we'll  find  a  way  to  make 
you."  I  became  passive  again,  and  then  when  the 
men  were  engaged  in  earnest  conversation,  I  be- 
gan to  telegraph  softly  to  the  despatcher.  The 
relay  being  shut  off  by  my  weight,  there  was  no 
noise  from  the  sounder,  and  I  sent  so  slowly  that 
the  key  was  noiseless.  Of  course  I  did  not  know 
on  whom  I  was  breaking  in,  but  I  kept  on.  I  told 
the  exact  state  of  affairs,  and  asked  him  to  either 
tell  the  Flyer  not  to  heed  my  red-light  and  go 
through,  or,  better  still,  to  send  an  armed  posse 
from  Kingsbury,  twelve  miles  up  the  road.  I  re- 
peated the  message  twice,  so  that  he  would  be  sure 
to  hear  it,  and  then  trusted  to  luck. 

The  cords  and  gags  were  beginning  to  hurt, 
and  my  anxiety  was  very  great.  The  minutes 
dragged  slowly  by,  and  I  thought  that  hour  would 


Two  of  the  men  tied  my  hands  in  front  of  me." 

(Page  16.) 


Encounter  with  Train  Robbers      17 

never  end ;  but  it  did  end  at  last,  and  all  of  a  sud- 
den I  heard  the  long  calliope  whistle  of  the  engine 
on  the  Flyer  as  she  came  down  the  grade.  This 
was  followed  by  two  short  blasts,  that  showed  she 
had  seen  my  red-light  and  was  going  to  stop. 
"My  God !"  I  thought.  "Has  she  been  warned?" 
So  soon  as  the  train  whistled  the  men  went  out 
leaving  me  helpless  on  the  table.  I  heard  the 
whistle  of  the  air  brakes  and  knew  the  train  must 
be  slowing  up.  My  anxiety  was  intense.  Pres- 
ently I  heard  her  stop  at  the  tank,  and  then,  in 
about  a  second,  I  listened  to  the  liveliest  fusillade 
that  I  had  ever  heard  in  my  life.  It  was  sweet 
music  to  my  ears  I  can  tell  you,  for  it  indicated  to 
me,  what  proved  to  be  a  fact,  that  a  posse  were  on 
board  and  that  the  robbers  were  foiled.  One  of 
them  was  shot,  and  two  were  captured,  but  "Bill," 
the  leader,  escaped.  They  had  their  horses 
hitched  to  the  telegraph  poles,  and  as  "Bill"  went 
running  by  the  office  I  heard  him  say,  "I'll  fix  that 
d — d  operator,  anyhow."  Then,  BANG !  crash, 
went  the  glass  in  the  window,  and  a  bullet  buried 
itself  in  the  table,  not  two  inches  from  my  head. 
I  was  not  exactly  killed,  but  I  was  frightened  so 
badly,  and  the  strain  had  been  so  great,  that  when 
the  trainmen  came  in  to  release  me,  I  at  once  lost 
consciousness.  When  I  came  to,  I  was  sur- 


1 8  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

rounded  by  a  sympathetic  crowd  of  passengers 
and  trainmen,  and  a  doctor,  who  happened  to  be 
on  the  train,  was  pouring  something  down  my 
throat  that  soon  made  me  feel  better. 

As  soon  as  I  had  recovered  myself  sufficiently,  I 
telegraphed  the  despatcher  what  had  happened, 
and  the  chief,  who  in  the  meantime  had  been  sent 
for,  told  me  to  close  up  my  office,  and  come  east 
on  the  flyer,  to  report  for  duty  in  the  morning 
in  his  office  as  copy  operator. 

That  is  how  I  won  my  promotion. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  A  WRECK 

THE  change  from  Alfreda  to  the  chief  de- 
spatcher's  office  in  Nicholson  was,  indeed,  a  pleas- 
ant one.  The  despatchers,  especially  the  first 
trick  man,  seemed  somewhat  dubious  as  to  my 
ability  to  do  the  work,  but  I  was  rapidly  improv- 
ing in  telegraphy,  and,  in  spite  of  my  extreme 
youth  I  was  allowed  to  remain.  But  the  life  of  a 
railroad  man  is  very  uncertain,  and  one  day  we 
were  much  surprised  to  hear  that  the  road  had 
gone  into  the  hands  of  receivers.  There  were 
charges  of  mismanagement  made  against  a  num- 
ber of  the  higher  officials  of  the  road,  and  one  of 
the  first  things  the  receivers  did  was  to  have  a 
general  "house-cleaning."  The  general  manager, 
the  general  superintendent,  and  a  number  of  the 
division  superintendents  resigned  to  save  dismis- 
sal, and  my  friend  the  chief  despatcher  went  with 
them.  He  was  succeeded  by  Ted  Donahue,  the 
man  who  had  been  working  the  first  trick.  Ted 
19 


20  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

didn't  like  me  worth  a  cent,  and,  rather  than  give 
him  an  opportunity  to  dismiss  me,  I  quit. 

I  was  at  home  idle  for  a  few  weeks,  and  then 
hearing  that  there  might  be  an  opening  for  opera- 
tors on  the  C.  Q.  &  R.,  a  new  road  building  up  in 
Nebraska,  I  once  more  started  out.  It  was  an  all 
night  ride  to  the  division  headquarters,  and 
thinking  I  might  as  well  be  luxurious  for  once, 
I  took  a  sleeper.  My  berth  was  in  the  front 
end  of  the  last  car  on  the  train.  I  retired  about 
half  past  ten  and  soon  dropped  off  into  a  sound 
sleep.  I  had  been  asleep  for  perhaps  two  hours, 
when  I  was  awakened  by  the  car  giving  a  violent 
lurch,  and  then  suddenly  stopping.  I  was 
stunned  and  dazed  for  a  moment,  but  I  soon  heard 
the  cracking  and  breaking  of  timbers,  and  the  hiss- 
ing of  steam  painfully  near  to  my  section.  I  tried 
to  move  and  rise  up,  but  found  that  the  confines 
of  my  narrow  quarters  would  not  permit  it.  I 
then  realized  that  we  were  wrecked  and  that  I 
was  in  a  bad  predicament.  I  felt  that  I  had  no 
bones  broken,  and  my  only  fear  was  that  the 
wreck  would  take  fire.  My  fears  were  not 
groundless  for  I  soon  smelled  smoke.  I  cried 
out  as  loudly  as  I  could,  but  my  berth  had  evi- 
dently become  a  "sound  proof  booth."  Then  I 
felt  that  my  time  had  come,  and  had  about  given 


In  a  Wreck  21 

up  all  hope,  and  was  trying  to  say  a  prayer,  when 
I  heard  the  train-crew  and  passengers  working 
above  me.  Again  I  cried  out  and  this  time  was 
heard,  and  soon  was  taken  out.  God!  what  a 
night  it  was — raining  a  perfect  deluge  and  the 
wind  blowing  a  hurricane. 

I  learned  that  our  train  had  stopped  on  ac- 
count of  a  hot  driving-box  on  the  engine;  the 
hind  brakeman  had  been  sent  back  to  put  out  a 
flag,  but,  imagining  there  was  nothing  coming,  he 
had  neglected  to  do  his  full  duty,  and  before  he 
knew  it,  a  fast  freight  came  tearing  around  the 
bend,  and  a  tail-end  collision  was  the  result.  See- 
ing the  awful  effects  of  his  gross  neglect,  the 
brakeman  took  out  across  the  country  and  was 
never  heard  of  again.  I  fancy  if  he  could  have 
been  found  that  night  by  the  passengers  and  train- 
crew  his  lot  would  have  been  anything  but  pleas- 
ant. Two  people  in  the  sleeper  were  killed  out- 
right, and  three  were  injured,  while  the  engineer 
and  fireman  of  the  freight  were  badly  hurt  by 
jumping.  I  didn't  get  a  scratch. 

As  I  stood  watching  the  wrecked  cars  burn,  I 
heard  the  conductor  say,  "he  wished  to  God  he 
had  an  operator  with  him."  I  told  him  I  was  an 
operator  and  offered  my  services.  He  said  there 
was  a  pocket  instrument  in  the  baggage  car,  and 


22  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

asked  me  if  I  would  cut  in  on  the  wire  and  tell  the 
despatcher  of  the  wreck.  I  assented  and  went 
forward  with  him  to  the  baggage  car,  where  he 
gave  me  a  pair  of  pliers,  a  pocket  instrument  and 
about  eight  feet  of  office  wire.  I  asked  for  a  pair 
of  climbers  and  some  more  office  wire,  but  neither 
was  to  be  had.  Here,  therefore,  was  a  pretty 
knotty  problem.  The  telegraph  poles  were  thirty 
feet  high ;  how  was  I  to  make  a  connection  with 
only  eight  feet  of  wire  and  no  climbers?  I 
thought  for  a  while,  and  then  I  put  the  instrument 
in  my  pocket,  and  undertook  to  "shin  up"  the  pole 
as  I  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  schoolboy.  After 
many  efforts,  in  which  I  succeeded  in  tearing 
nearly  all  the  clothes  off  of  me,  I  finally  reached 
the  lowest  cross-arm,  and  seated  myself  on  it  with 
my  legs  wrapped  around  the  pole.  There  was  only 
one  wire  on  this  arm,  so  I  had,  comparatively 
speaking,  plenty  of  room.  On  each  of  the  other 
two  cross  arms  there  were  four  wires,  and  there 
was  also  one  strung  along  the  tops  of  the  poles. 
This  made  ten  wires  in  all,  and  I  had  not  the  least 
idea  which  one  was  the  despatcher's  wire.  The 
pole  being  wet  from  the  rain,  made  the  wires 
mighty  hot  to  handle.  I  had  the  fireman  hand 
me  up  a  piece  of  old  iron  wire  he  happened  to 
have  on  the  engine,  and  with  this  I  made  a  flying 


In  a  Wreck  23 

cut  in  the  third  wire  of  the  second  cross  arm.  I 
attached  the  little  pocket  instrument,  and  found 
that  upon  adjusting  it,  I  was  on  a  commercial 
wire.  There  I  was,  straddling  a  cross  arm  between 
heaven  and  earth,  with  the  instrument  held  on  my 
knee,  and  totally  ignorant  of  any  of  the  calls  or 
the  wire  I  was  on.  I  yelled  down  to  the  con- 
ductor and  asked  him  if  he  knew  any  of  the  calls. 
No;  of  course  he  didn't;  and  he  was  so  excited 
he  didn't  have  sense  enough  to  look  on  his  time- 
card,  where  the  calls  are  always  printed.  Finally, 
after  carefully  adjusting  the  instrument,  I  opened 
my  key,  broke  in  on  somebody,  and  said  "Wreck." 
The  answer  came,  "Sine."  I  said,  "I  haven't  any 
sine.  No.  2  on  the  C.  K.  &  Q.  has  been  wrecked 
out  here,  and  I  want  the  despatcher's  office.  Can 
you  tell  me  if  he  is  on  this  wire?" 

Now  there  is  a  vast  deal  of  difference  between 
sending  with  a  Bunnell  key  on  a  polished  table, 
and  sending  with  a  pocket  instrument  held  on 
your  knee,  especially  when  you  are  perched  on  a 
thirty  foot  pole,  with  the  rain  pouring  down  in 
torrents,  the  wind  blowing  almost  a  gale,  and  ex- 
pecting every  minute  to  be  blown  off  and  have 
your  precious  neck  broken.  Consequently  my 
sending  was  pretty  "rocky,"  and  some  one  came 
back  at  me  with,  "Oh!  get  out  you  big  ham." 


24  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

But  I  hung  to  it  and  finally  made  them  understand 
who  I  was  and  what  I  wanted.  The  main  office 
in  Ouray  cut  me  in  on  the  despatcher's  wire  and  I 
told  him  of  the  wreck.  He  said  he  had  suspected 
that  No.  2  was  in  trouble,  but  he  had  no  idea  that 
it  was  as  bad  as  I  had  reported.  He  said  he  would 
order  out  the  wrecking  outfit  and  would  send  doc- 
tors with  it.  Would  I  please  stay  close  and  do 
the  telegraphing  for  them,  he  would  see  that  I  was 
properly  rewarded.  Then  I  told  him  about  where 
I  was,  but  promised  to  hold  on  as  long  as  I  could, 
but  for  him  to  be  sure  and  send  out  some  more 
wire  and  a  pair  of  climbers  on  the  wrecker.  After 
waiting  about  an  hour  the  wrecker  arrived,  and 
with  it  the  doctors;  so  our  anxiety  was  relieved, 
the  wounded  taken  care  of,  and  a  decent  wrecking 
office  put  in. 

The  division  superintendent  came  out  with 
them,  and  for  my  services  he  offered  me  the  day 
office  at  X — ,  which  1  accepted. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  WOMAN  OPERATOR  WHO  SAVED  A  TRAIN 

X —  was  a  pretty  good  sort  of  an  office  to  have, 
barring  a  beastly  climate  wherein  all  four  seasons 
would  sometimes  be  ably  and  fully  represented 
in  one  twenty-four  hours.  But  eighty  big  round 
American  dollars  a  month  was  not  to  be  sneezed 
at — that  was  a  heap  of  money  to  a  young  chap — 
and  I  hung  on.  In  those  days  civilization  had 
not  advanced  as  far  westward  as  it  is  to-day,  and 
there  was  not  much  local  business  on  the  road, 
due  to  the  sparsely  settled  country.  The  first 
office  east  of  X —  was  Dunraven,  some  twenty 
miles  away.  Between  the  two  places  were  sev- 
eral blind  sidings  used  as  passing  tracks.  Dun- 
raven  was  a  cracking  good  little  village  and  the 
day  operator  there  was  Miss  Mary  Marsh ;  there 
was  no  night  office.  Now  I  was  just  at  the  age 
where  all  a  young  man's  susceptibility  comes  to 
the  surface,  and  I  was  a  pretty  fair  sample.  I 
weighed  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  and  every 
ounce  of  me  was  as  susceptible  as  a  barometer  on 
25 


26  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

a  stormy  day.  Consequently  it  was  not  long  un- 
til I  knew  Mary  and  liked  her  immensely.  All 
my  spare  time  was  occupied  in  talking  to  her  over 
the  wire,  except  when  the  cussed  despatcher  would 
chase  me  off  with,  "Oh !  get  out  you  big  spoon, 
you  make  every  one  tired."  Then  Mary  would 
give  me  the  merry,  "Ha,  ha,  ha." 

One  time  I  took  a  day  off  and  ran  down  to  Dun- 
raven,  and  my  impressions  were  fully  confirmed. 
Mary  was  a  little  bit  of  a  woman,  with  black  hair, 
red  lips,  white  teeth,  and  two  eyes  that  looked 
like  coals  of  fire,  so  bright  were  they.  She  was 
small,  but  when  she  took  hold  of  the  key,  she  was 
jerked  lightning,  and  I  have  never  seen  but  one 
woman  since  who  was  her  equal  in  that  line. 

Our  road  was  one  of  the  direct  connections  of 
the  "Overland  Route,"  west  to  San  Francisco, 
and  twice  a  day  we  had  a  train,  that  in  those  days 
was  called  a  flyer.  Now  it  would  be  in  a  class 
with  the  first  class  freights.  The  west  bound 
train  passed  my  station  at  eight  in  the  morning, 
and  the  east  bound  at  seven-thirty  in  the  evening. 
After  that  I  gave  "DS"  good  night,  and  was  free 
until  seven  the  next  morning.  The  east  bound 
flyer  passed  Dunraven  at  eight-fifteen  in  the  even- 
ing and  then  Mary  was  through  for  the  night. 
The  town  was  a  mile  away  from  the  depot  and  the 


A  Woman  who  Saved  a  Train      27 

poor  girl  had  to  trudge  all  that  distance  alone. 
But  she  was  as  plucky  as  they  make  them  and  was 
never  molested.  A  mile  west  of  Dunraven  was 
Peach  Creek,  spanned  by  a  wooden  pile  and 
stringer  bridge.  Ordinarily,  you  could  step 
across  Peach  Creek,  but  sometimes,  after  a  heavy 
rain  it  would  be  a  raging  torrent  of  dirty  muddy 
water,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  underpinning  must 
surely  be  washed  out  by  the  flood. 

One  day  after  I  had  been  at  X —  a  couple  of 
months,  we  had  a  stem-winder  of  a  storm.  The 
rain  came  down  in  torrents  unceasingly  for  twelve 
hours,  and  the  country  around  X —  was  almost  a 
morass.  The  roadbed  was  good,  however,  and 
when  the  section  men  came  in  at  six  that  night 
they  reported  the  track  firm  and  safe.  But,  my 
stars !  how  the  rain  was  falling  at  seven-thirty  as 
the  flyer  went  smashing  by.  I  made  my  "OS"  re- 
port and  then  thought  I'd  sit  around  and  wait 
until  it  had  passed  Dunraven  and  have  a  little 
chat  with  Mary,  before  going  home  for  the  night. 
At  seven-forty-five  I  called  her  but  no  answer. 
Then  I  waited.  Eight  o'clock,  eight-fifteen,  eight- 
twenty,  and  still  nothing  from  Dunraven.  The 
despatcher  then  started  to  call  "DU,"  but  no  an- 
swer. Finally,  he  said  to  me,  "You  call  'DU.' 
Maybe  the  wire  is  heavy  and  she  can't  adjust  for 


28  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

me."  I  called  steadily  for  five  minutes,  but  still 
no  reply.  I  was  beginning  to  get  scared.  All 
sorts  of  ideas  came  into  my  head — robbers, 
tramps,  fire  and  murder. 

"DS"  said,  "I'm  afraid  something  has  happened 
to  the  flyer.  Turn  your  red-light  and  when  No. 
26  comes  along,  I'll  give  them  an  order  to  cut  loose 
with  the  engine  and  go  through  and  find  the 
flyer." 

Five  minutes  later  the  wire  opened  and  closed. 
Then  the  current  became  weak,  but  adjusting 
down,  I  heard,  "DS,  DS,  WK."  Ah !  that  meant 
a  wreck.  "DS"  answered  and  I  heard  the  fol- 
lowing message : — 

"W.  D.  C.  "PEACH  CREEK,  4  |    13,  1 8— 

"DS. 

"Peach  Creek  bridge  washed  out  to-night,  but  I 
heard  of  it  and  arrived  here  in  time  to  flag  the 
flyer.  Send  an  operator  on  the  wrecking  outfit 
to  relieve  me. 

"(signed)     MARY  MARSH,  Operator." 

Two  hours  afterwards  the  wrecker  came  by 
X —  and,  obedient  to  orders  from  the  despatcher, 
I  boarded  it  and  went  down  to  work  the  office. 
We  reached  there  in  about  forty  minutes  and 
found  that  the  torrent  had  washed  out  the  under- 
pinning of  the  bridge,  and  nothing  was  left  but  a 


A  Woman  who  Saved  a  Train       29 

few  ties,  the  rails  and  the  stringers.  A  half 
witted  boy,  who  lived  in  Dunraven,  had  been  fish- 
ing that  day  like  "Simple  Simon,"  and  came 
tramping  up  to  the  office,  telling  Miss  Marsh,  in 
an  idiotic  way,  that  Peach  Creek  bridge  had 
washed  out.  Just  then  she  heard  me  "OS"  the 
flyer  and  her  office  was  the  next  one  to  mine.  As 
the  flyer  did  not  stop  at  Dunraven,  the  baggage- 
man and  helper  went  home  at  six  o'clock  and  she 
was  absolutely  alone  save  for  this  half  witted  boy. 
The  section  house  was  a  mile  and  a  half  away  to 
the  east.  A  mile  away,  to  the  south  were  the 
twinkling  lights  of  the  village,  while  but  one  short 
mile  to  the  west  was  Peach  Creek,  with  the  bridge 
gone  out,  and  the  flyer  thundering  along  towards 
it  with  its  precious  load  of  human  freight.  How 
could  it  be  warned.  The  boy  hadn't  sense 
enough  to  pound  sand.  She  must  do  it.  So, 
quick  as  a  flash  she  picked  up  the  red-light  stand- 
ing near,  and  started  down  the  track.  The  rain 
was  coming  down  in  a  perfect  deluge,  and  the 
wind  was  sweeping  across  the  Nebraska  prairies 
like  a  hurricane.  Lightning  was  flashing,  casting 
a  lurid  glare  over  the  soaked  earth,  and  the  thun- 
der rolled  peal  after  peal,  resembling  the  artillery 
of  great  guns  in  a  big  battle.  Truly,  it  was  like 
the  setting  for  a  grand  drama.  Undaunted  by  it 


30  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

all,  this  brave  little  woman,  bare  headed,  hair  fly- 
ing in  the  wind,  and  soaked  to  the  skin,  battled 
with  the  elements  as  she  fought  her  way  down  the 
track.  A  mile,  ordinarily,  is  a  short  distance,  but 
now,  to  her,  it  seemed  almost  interminable;  and 
all  the  time  the  flyer  was  coming  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  creek  with  the  broken  bridge.  My  God! 
would  she  make  it !  Presently,  above  the  howling 
of  the  wind  she  heard  the  mad  waters  as  they  went 
boiling  and  tumbling  down  the  channel. 

At  last  she  was  there,  standing  on  the  brink. 
But  the  train  was  not  yet  saved.  Just  across  the 
creek  the  road  made  an  abrupt  curve  around  a 
small  hill,  and  if  she  could  not  reach  that  curve 
her  labors  would  be  to  no  avail,  and  a  frightful 
wreck  would  follow.  All  the  bridge  was  gone 
save  the  rails,  stringers  and  a  few  shaky  ties. 
Only  forty  feet  intervened  between  her  and  the 
opposite  bank,  and  get  across  she  must.  There 
was  only  one  way,  so  grasping  the  lantern  be- 
tween her  teeth,  she  started  across  on  her  hands 
and  knees.  The  stringers  swayed  back  and  forth 
in  the  wind,  and  her  frail  body,  it  seemed,  would 
surely  be  caught  up  and  blown  into  the  mad 
maelstrom  of  waters  below.  No!  No!  she 
could  not  fail  now.  Away  up  the  road,  borne 
to  her  anxious  ears  by  the  howling  wind,  she 


"After  many  efforts  I  finally  reacJied  the  lowest 
cross-arm."  (page  22.) 


A  Woman  who  Saved  a  Train      31 

heard  two  long  and  two  short  blasts  of  the 
flyer's  whistle  as  she  signalled  for  a  cross- 
ing. God!  would  she  ever  get  there.  Strain- 
ing every  nerve,  at  last  success  was  hers,  and  tot- 
tering, she  struggled  up  the  other  side.  Flying 
up  the  track,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  some 
eyrie  witch,  she  reached  the  curve,  swinging  her 
red  light  like  mad.  Bob  Burns,  who  was  pulling 
the  flyer  that  night,  saw  the  signal,  and  immedi- 
ately applied  the  emergency  brakes.  Then  he 
looked  again  and  the  red-light  was  gone.  But 
caution  is  a  magic  watchword  with  all  railroad 
men,  and  he  stopped.  Climbing  down  out  of  the 
cab  of  the  engine,  he  took  his  torch,  and  started 
out  to  investigate.  He  didn't  have  far  to  go,  when 
he  came  upon  the  limp,  inanimate  form  of  Mary 
Marsh,  the  extinguished  red-light  tightly  clasped 
in  her  cold  little  hand. 

"My  God!  Mike,"  he  yelled  to  his  fireman,  "it's 
a  woman.  Why,  hang  me,  if  it  isn't  the  little 
lady  from  Dunraven.  Wonder  what  she  is  doing 
out  here."  He  wasn't  long  in  ignorance,  because 
a  brakeman  sent  out  ahead  saw  that  the  bridge 
had  gone. 

Rough,  but  kindly  hands,  bore  her  tenderly  into 
the  sleeper,  and  under  the  ministrations  of  her 
own  sex,  she  soon  came  around.  So  soon  as  she 


32  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

had  seen  the  flyer  stopping  she  realized  that  she 
had  succeeded  and  womanlike — she  fainted.  Her 
clothes  were  torn  to  tatters,  and  taken  all  in  all 
this  little  heroine  was  a  most  woe-begone  speci- 
men of  humanity. 

A  wrecking  office  was  cut  in  by  the  baggage- 
man, who  happened  to  be  an  old  lineman,  and  she 
sent  the  message  to  "DS,"  telling  him  of  the 
wreck.  I  relieved  her  and  she  stayed  in  the 
sleeper  all  night,  and  the  next  day  she  returned  to 
her  work  at  Dunraven,  but  little  worse  for  the  ex- 
perience. She  had  positively  refused  to  accept  a 
thing  from  the  thankful  passengers,  saying  she 
did  but  her  duty. 

Two  months  afterwards  she  married  the  chief 
despatcher,  and  the  profession  lost  the  best 
woman  operator  in  the  business.  I  was  dread- 
fully cut  by  the  ending  of  affairs,  but  she  had 
said,  "Red  headed  operators  were  not  in  her 
class,"  and  I  reckon  she  was  about  right. 

Surely,  she  was  a  direct  descendant  from  the 
Spartan  mothers. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  NIGHT  OFFICE  IN  TEXAS — A  STUTTERING 
DESPATCHER 

IT  WAS  not  long  after  Mary  threw  me  over 
that  I  became  tired  of  X —  and  gave  up  my  job 
and  started  south.  I  said  it  was  on  account  of  ill 
health,  but  the  last  thing  that  cussed  first  trick  des- 
patcher  said  to  me  was,  "Never  mind,  you  old 
spoon,  you'll  get  over  this  attack  in  a  very  short 
while." 

I  landed  in  St.  Louis  one  bright  morning  and 
went  up  to  the  office  of  the  chief  despatcher  of  the 
Q.  M.  &  S.,  and  applied  for  an  office  on  his  divi- 
sion. He  had  none  to  give  me  but  wired  the  chief 
despatcher  at  Big  Rock,  and  in  answer  thereto  I 
was  sent  the  next  morning  to  Healyville.  And 
what  a  place  I  found!  The  town  was  down  in 
the  swamps  of  southeast  Missouri,  four  miles 
north  of  the  Arkansas  line,  and  consisted  of  the 
depot  and  twenty  or  twenty-five  houses,  five  of 
which  were  saloons.  There  was  a  branch  road 
running  from  here  to  Honiton,  quite  a  settlement 
on  the  Mississippi  river,  and  that  was  the  only 
33 


34  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

possible  excuse  for  an  officer  at  this  point..  The 
atmosphere  was  so  full  of  malaria,  that  you  could 
almost  cut  it  with  an  axe.  I  stayed  there  just 
three  days,  and  then,  fortunately,  the  chief  des- 
patcher  ordered  me  to  come  to  his  office.  He 
wanted  me  to  take  the  office  at  Boling  Cross,  near 
the  Texas  line,  but  I  had  the  traveling  fever  and 
wanted  to  go  further  south,  and  he  sent  me  down 
on  the  I.  &  G.  N.,  and  the  chief  there  sent  me  to 
Herron,  Texas.  There  wasn't  much  sickness  in 
the  air  around  Herron,  but  there  were  just  a  mil- 
lion fleas  to  every  square  inch  of  sand  in  the  place. 
Herron  was  one  of  the  few  towns  in  a  very  exten- 
sive cattle  belt,  and  a  few  days  after  I  had  arrived 
I  noticed  the  town  had  filled  up  with  "cow  punch- 
ers." They  had  just  had  their  semi-annual  round 
up,  and  were  in  town  spending  their  money  and 
having  a  whooping  big  time.  You  probably  know 
what  that  means  to  a  cow-boy.  I  was  a  tender- 
foot of  the  worst  kind,  and  every  one  at  the 
boarding-house  and  depot  seemed  to  take  particu- 
lar delight  in  telling  me  of  the  shooting  scrapes 
and  rackets  of  these  cow-boys,  and  how  they  de- 
lighted in  making  it  warm  for  a  tender-foot.  Bob 
Wolfe,  the  day  man  at  the  depot,  told  me  how  at 
times  they  had  come  up  and  raised  particular  Cain 
at  the  station,  especially  when  there  was  a  new 


A  Night  Office  in  Texas  35 

operator  on  hand.  I  didn't  half  believe  all  their 
stories,  but  I  will  confess  that  I  had  a  few  misgiv- 
ings the  first  night  when  I  went  to  work.  One 
night  passed  safely  enough,  but  the  second  was  a 
hummer  from  the  word  go.  The  office  was  some- 
what larger  than  the  telegraph  offices  usually  are 
in  small  towns.  The  table  was  in  the  recess  of  a 
big  bay  window,  giving  me  a  clear  view  of  the 
I.  &  G.  N.  tracks,  while  along  the  front  ran  the 
usual  long  wide  platform.  The  P.  &  T.  C.  road 
crossed  at  right  angles  at  one  end  of  the  platform, 
and  one  operator  did  the  work  for  the  two  roads. 
There  were  two  lamps  over  my  desk — one  on  each 
side  of  the  bay  window — and  one  was  out  in  the 
waiting-room.  I  also  kept  a  lantern  lighted  to 
carry  when  I  went  out  to  trains. 

All  through  the  early  part  of  the  night,  I  heard 
sounds  of  revelry  and  carousing,  accompanied  by 
an  occasional  pistol  shot,  up  in  the  town,  but  about 
half  past  eleven  these  sounds  ceased,  and  I  was 
congratulating  myself  that  my  night,  would  after 
all,  be  uneventful.  About  twelve  o'clock,  how- 
ever, there  arose  just  outside  the  office  the  great- 
est commotion  I  had  ever  heard  in  my  life.  I 
was  eating  my  midnight  lunch,  and  had  a  piece  of 
pie  in  my  hand,  when  I  heard  the  tramp  of  many 
feet  on  the  platform.  It  sounded  like  a  regiment 


36  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

of  infantry,  and  in  a  minute  there  came  the  report 
of  a  shot,  and  with  a  crash  out  went  one  of  my 
lights,  a  shower  of  glass  falling  on  the  table.  Be- 
fore I  could  collect  myself  there  came  another  shot 
and  smash  out  went  the  other  light.  I  dropped 
my  pie  and  spasmodically  grasped  the  table.  The 
only  lights  left  were  the  one  in  the  waiting-room 
and  my  lantern,  which  made  it  in  the  office  little 
better  than  total  darkness.  All  the  time  the  tramp, 
tramp  on  the  platform  was  coming  closer  and 
closer,  and  my  heart  was  gradually  forcing  its 
way  up  in  my  mouth.  In  a  moment  the  waiting- 
room  door  was  thrown  open,  and  with  a  wild 
whoop  and  a  big  hurrah,  the  crowd  came  in.  The 
door  between  the  office  and  the  waiting-room  was 
closed,  but  that  made  no  difference  to  my  visitors ; 
they  smashed  it  open  and  swarmed  into  the  office. 
One  of  them  picked  up  the  lantern,  and  swagger- 
ing over  to  where  I  sat  all  trembling  with  fear, 
and  expecting  that  my  lights  would  go  out  next, 
raised  it  to  my  face.  They  all  crowded  around 
me  and  one  of  them  gave  me  a  good  punch  in  the 
ribs.  Then  the  one  with  the  lantern  said,  "Well, 
fellows,  the  little  cuss  is  game.  He  didn't  get 
under  the  table  like  the  last  one  did.  Kid,  for  a 
tenderfoot,  you're  a  hummer." 

Get  under  the  table!      I  couldn't.      I  would 


A  Night  Office  in  Texas  37 

have  given  half  my  interest  in  the  hereafter  to 
have  been  able  to  crawl  under  the  table  or  to  have 
run  away.  But  fright  held  its  sway,  and  locomo- 
tion was  impossible. 

For  about  five  minutes  the  despatcher  had  been 
calling  me  for  orders,  and  in  a  trembling  voice  I 
asked  them  to  let  me  answer  and  take  the  order. 
"Cert,"  said  one  of  them,  who  appeared  to  be  the 
leader,  "go  on  and  take  the  order,  and  then  take  a 
drink  with  us." 

By  the  dim  light  of  only  that  lantern,  with  my 
order  pad  on  a  table  covered  with  broken  glass, 
and  smattered  with  pie,  I  finally  copied  the  order, 
but  it  was  about  the  worst  attempt  I  had  ever 
made;  and  the  conductor  remarked  when  he 
signed  it,  that  it  would  take  a  Philadelphia  lawyer 
to  read  it.  The  cow-punchers,  however,  from 
that  time  on  were  very  good  friends  of  mine,  and 
many  a  pleasant  Sunday  did  I  spend  on  their 
ranches.  They  afterwards  told  me  that  Bob 
Wolfe  had  put  them  up  to  their  midnight  visit  in 
order  to  frighten  me.  They  certainly  succeeded. 
My  service  at  Herron  was  not  very  profitable,  the 
road  being  in  the  hands  of  receivers,  and  for  four 
months  none  of  us  received  a  cent  of  wages.  The 
road  was  called  the  "International  &  Great  North- 


38  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

ern,"  but  we  facetiously  dubbed  it  the  "Independ- 
ent &  Got  Nothing." 

Some  months  after  this  I  was  transferred  down 
to  the  southern  division,  and  made  night  operator 
at  Mankato.  This  was  really  about  the  best  posi- 
tion I  had  yet  struck :  good  hours,  plenty  of  work 
and  a  fine  office  to  do  it  in,  and  eighty  dollars  a 
month.  The  agent  and  day  man  were  both  fine 
fellows,  and  there  was  no  chore  work  around  the 
station — a  baggage  smasher  did  that.  The  des- 
patchers  up  in  "DS"  office  were  pleasant  to  work 
with  and  as  competent  a  lot  of  men  as  ever 
touched  a  key.  I  had  never  met  any  of  them 
when  I  first  took  the  office,  though  of  course  I 
soon  knew  their  names,  and  the  following  incident 
will  disclose  how  and  under  what  unusual  circum- 
stances I  formed  the  acquaintance  of  one  of  them, 
Fred  De  Armand,  the  second  trick  man. 

About  four  weeks  after  I  took  the  Mankato 
office,  engine  333,  pulling  a  through  livestock 
freight  north,  broke  a  parallel  rod,  and  besides 
cutting  the  engineer  into  mince-meat,  caused  a 
great  wreck.  This  took  place  about  two  miles 
and  a  half  north  of  Mankato.  The  hind  man 
came  back  and  reported  it,  and  being  off  duty,  I 
caught  up  a  pocket  instrument  and  some  wire,  and 
jumping  on  a  velocipede,  was  soon  at  the  wreck. 


1  One  of  them  picked  up  the  lantern,  and  swaggering  over  to  -where 
I  sat  all  trembling   .   .   ."  (Page  36.) 


A  Night  Office  in  Texas  39 

I  cut  in  an  office  in  short  order,  and  "DS"  soon 
knew  exactly  how  matters  stood.  One  passenger 
train  south  was  tied  up  just  beyond  the  wreck,  and 
in  about  an  hour  and  a  half  the  wrecker  appeared 
in  charge  of  the  train-master.  I  observed  a  young 
man  twenty-eight  or  thirty  years  of  age  standing 
around  looking  on,  and  once  when  I  was  near  him 
I  noticed  that  he  stammered  very  badly. 

I  carefully  avoided  saying  anything  to  that 
young  man,  because,  I,  too,  at  times,  had  a  rather 
bad  impediment  in  my  speech.  It  asserted  itself 
especially  when  I  heard  any  one  else  stutter,  or 
when  the  weather  was  going  to  change ;  the  men 
who  knew  me  well  said  they  could  always  foretell 
a  storm  by  my  inability  to  talk.  From  my  own 
experience,  however,  I  knew  that  when  a  stam- 
merer heard  another  man  stammer,  he  imagined 
that  he  was  being  made  fun  of,  and  all  the  fight 
in  him  came  at  once  to  the  surface;  and  as  this 
young  man  was  about  twice  my  size,  I  did  my  best 
to  keep  away  from  him.  But  in  a  few  moments 
he  came  over  to  where  I  was  and  said  to  me, 
"A-a-a-sk  'DS'  t-t-t-t-o  s-s-s-end  out  m-m-m-y 
r-r-ain  c-c-c-c-oat  on  th-th-th-irteen."  Every 
other  word  was  followed  by  a  whistle. 

My  great  help  in  stammering  was  to  kick  with 
my  right  foot.  I  knew  what  was  coming,  and 


40  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

tried  my  best  to  avert  the  trouble.  I  drew  in  a 
long  breath  and  said :  "Who  sh-sh-sh-all  I  s-s-s-ay 
y-y-y-ou  are  ?"  and  my  right  foot  was  doing  great 
execution.  True  to  its  barometrical  functions, 
my  throat  was  predicting  a  storm.  It  came. 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  second,  grew  red  in  the 
face,  then  catching  me  by  the  collar,  gave  me  a 
yank,  that  made  me  see  forty  stars,  and  said, 
"B-b-b-last  you!  wh-wh-at  d-d-o  y-y-ou  m-mean 
b-b-y  m-mocking  me?  I'll  sm-sm-ash  y-y-our 
b-b-b-lamed  r-r-ed  head." 

Speech  left  me  entirely  then,  and  I  am  afraid  I 
would  have  been  most  beautifully  thumped,  had 
not  Sanders,  the  trainmaster,  come  over  and 
stopped  him.  He  called  him  "De  Armand,"  and 
I  then  knew  he  was  the  second  trick  despatches 
After  many  efforts  DC  Armand  told  Sanders  how 
I  had  mocked  him.  Sanders  didn't  know  me  and 
the  war  clouds  began  to  gather  again ;  but  John- 
son, the  conductor  of  the  wrecker,  came  over  and 
said,  "Hold  on  there,  De  Armand,  that  kid  ain't 
mocking  you ;  he  stammers  so  bad  at  times  that 
he  kicks  a  hole  in  the  floor.  Why,  I  have  seen 
him  start  to  say  something  to  my  engineer  pulling 
out  of  Mankato,  and  he  would  finish  it  just  as  the 
caboose  went  by,  and  we  had  some  forty  cars  in 
the  train  at  that." 


A  Night  Office  in  Texas  41 

At  this  a  smile  broke  over  De  Armand's  face, 
and  he  grasped  my  hand  and  said,  "Excuse 
m-m-m-e  k-k-id ;  but  y-y-you  k-k-know  how  it  is 
y-y-yourself."  You  may  well  believe  that  I  did 
know. 

One  night,  shortly  after  this,  I  was  repeating  an 
order  to  De  Armand,  and  in  the  middle  of  it  I 
broke  myself  very  badly.  He  opened  his  key,  and 
said,  "Kick,  you  devil,  kick!"  And  I  got  the 
merry  ha-ha  from  up  and  down  the  line.  But  in 
giving  me  a  message  a  little  while  after  he  flew  the 
track,  and  I  instantly  opened  up  and  said,  "Whis- 
tle, you  tarrier,  whistle!"  Maybe  he  didn't  get 
it  back. 


CHAPTER  VI 

BLUE    FIELD,    ARIZONA,    AND    AN    INDIAN    SCRIM- 
MAGE 

THE  desire  to  travel  was  strong  within  me,  and 
in  the  following  June  I  left  Mankato,  went  out  to 
Arizona  and  secured  a  position  on  the  A.  &  P.,  at 
Blue  Field,  a  small  town  almost  in  the  centre  of 
the  desert.  Alfreda,  Kansas,  was  dreary  and 
desolate  enough,  but  there,  I  was  at  least  in  com- 
munication with  civilization,  because  I  had  one 
wire  running  to  Kansas  City,  while  Blue  Field 
was  the  crowning  glory  of  utter  desolation.  The 
Bible  says  that  the  good  Lord  made  heaven  and 
earth  in  six  days,  and  rested  on  the  seventh.  It 
needed  but  a  single  glance  at  Blue  Field  to  thor- 
oughly convince  me  that  the  Lord  quit  work  at  the 
end  of  the  sixth  day  right  there,  and  had  never 
taken  it  up  since.  There  was  nothing  but  some 
scattering  adobe  shacks,  with  the  usual  comple- 
ment of  saloons,  and  as  far  almost  as  the  eye  could 
see  in  every  direction, — sand — hot,  glaring,  burn- 
ing sand.  To  the  far  northwards,  could  be 
42 


Blue  Field,  Arizona  43 

dimly  observed  the  outlines  of  the  Mogollon  range 
of  mountains.  The  population  consisted  chiefly 
of  about  four  hundred  dare-devil  spirits  who  had 
started  to  wander  westwards  in  search  of  the  El 
Dorado  and  had  finally  settled  there,  too  tired, 
too  disgusted  to  go  any  farther,  and  lacking 
money  enough  to  return  to  their  homes.  It  wasn't 
the  most  congenial  crowd  in  the  world.  There 
was  only  one  good  thing  in  the  place,  and  that 
was  a  deep  well  of  pure  sparkling  water.  The 
sun  during  the  day  was  so  scorching  that  the  rails 
seemed  to  sizzle  as  they  stretched  out  like  two 
slender,  interminable  bands  of  silver  over  the  hot 
sands,  and  at  night  no  relief  was  apparent,  and 
the  office  so  stifling  hot  that  my  existence  was 
well  nigh  unbearable.  But  the  pay  was  ninety 
dollars  per  month  and  I  hung  on  until  I  could  save 
funds  enough  to  get  back  to  God's  own  country. 
To  sleep  in  a  house,  in  the  day  time,  was  almost 
killing,  so  I  used  to  make  up  a  sort  of  bunk  on  a 
truck  and  sleep  in  the  shade  of  the  freight  shed. 
At  seven-forty-three  in  the  evening,  the  Trans- 
Continental  flyer  went  smashing  by  at  a  fifty-five 
mile  an  hour  clip  and  the  dust  it  raised  was  enough 
to  strangle  a  man. 

The  Arizona  climate  is  a  well  known  specific 
for  pulmonary  troubles,  and  thousands  of  people 


44  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

come  down  there  in  all  stages  of  consumption 
from  the  first  premonitory  cough  to  the  living 
emaciated  skeleton. 

The  first  station  west  of  me  was  Clear  Creek 
(so  called  on  account  of  a  good  sized  stream  of 
water  that  came  down  from  the  Mogollons),  and 
a  few  days  after  I  arrived  at  Blue  Field,  I  heard  a 
message  going  over  the  wires  saying  that  Fred 
Baird  was  coming  down  there  to  take  charge.  I 
had  known  him  up  in  Kansas,  and  his  looks  and  a 
hacking  cough  indicated  only  too  truly,  that  the 
dreaded  consumption  had  fastened  itself  on  him; 
therefore  when  I  heard  of  his  assignment  to  Clear 
Creek,  I  knew  it  was  his  health  that  brought  him 
down  to  that  awful  country.  He  had  a  wife  (and 
a  sweet  little  woman  she  was),  and  two  beautiful 
children,  aged  two  and  four.  A  few  evenings 
after  this  I  had  the  pleasure  of  talking  to  them 
for  several  minutes  as  they  went  through  on  a 
slow  passenger  train,  and  I  must  say  that  my  heart 
ached  when  I  thought  of  the  town  to  which  that 
family  was  going.  What  a  place  to  bring  a 
woman?  But  then  women  have  a  faculty  of 
hanging  on  to  their  liege  lords  under  all  circum- 
stances and  conditions.  God  bless  'em.  Baird, 
himself,  looked  wretched,  being  a  mere  shadow  of 


Blue  Field,  Arizona  45 

his  former  self,  but  like  all  consumptives  he  im- 
agined he  was  going  to  get  well. 

Just  about  this  time,  two  Indian  gentlemen, 
named  Geronimo  and  Victoria,  were  raising  par- 
ticular mischief  all  through  that  section  of  the 
country,  and  the  feeling  that  any  moment  they 
might  come  down  on  you  and  raise  your  scalp 
after  puncturing  you  full  of  holes  was  anything 
but  pleasant.  It  was  decidedly  creepy  and  many 
a  time  I  wished  myself  back  in  the  good  old  state 
of  Texas.  I  had  come  for  excitement  and  adven- 
ture and  it  was  not  long  until  I  had  both  articles 
doled  out  to  me  in  large  chunks.  Those  Indians 
used  to  break  out  from  their  reservations,  swoop 
down  on  some  settlement,  kill  everything  in  sight 
and  then  loot  and  burn  to  their  heart's  content. 
There  was  no  warning — just  a  few  shots,  then  a 
shrill  war-whoop,  and  a  perfect  horde  of  yelling 
and  shooting  red  devils  would  be  upon  you.  Pre- 
cautions were  taken  and  some  of  the  larger  set- 
tlements were  able  to  stand  them  off  until  some 
of  the  small  army  could  come  and  scatter  them. 
Blue  Field  had  pickets  posted  every  night,  chosen 
from  among  the  four  hundred  toughs  that  lived 
there,  and  was  pretty  well  protected. 

They  gave  us  a  wide  berth  for  a  while,  but  one 
night,  I  was  sitting  dozing  in  my  chair  about 


46  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

eleven-thirty,  when  I  was  awakened  by  the  sharp 
crack  of  a  rifle,  followed  in  quick  succession  by 
others,  until  it  was  a  regular  fusilade.  Then  I 
heard  the  short  shrill  Apache  war-whoop,  and 
mentally  I  thought  my  time  had  come.  I  tried  to 
breathe  a  prayer,  but  the  high  and  unusual  posi- 
tion of  my  heart  effectually  prevented  any  articu- 
lation. The  window  had  been  closed  on  account 
of  a  high  wind  blowing,  or  I  fancy  I  should  have 
gone  out  that  way.  However,  I  grabbed  up  a 
rifle,  and  then  opening  a  trap  door,  dropped  down 
into  a  little  cubby  hole  under  the  floor,  where  we 
used  to  keep  our  batteries.  What  I  brought  the 
rifle  along  for  I  can't  say,  unless  it  was  to  blow 
the  top  of  my  own  head  off.  The  place  was  like  a 
bake-oven  and  all  the  air  I  received  came  through 
a  small  crack  in  the  floor,  and  it  was  not  long  until 
I  was  soaked  with  perspiration. 

Overhead  I  could  hear  the  crack  of  the  rifles 
and  the  whoop  of  the  Indians  as  the  battle  raged, 
back  and  forth.  During  a  temporary  lull  I  heard 
the  despatcher  calling  me  for  dear  life,  but  he 
could  call  for  all  I  cared ;  I  had  other  business  just 
then — I  was  truly  "25."  All  at  once  I  heard  a 
bigger  commotion  than  ever,  there  was  a  sound  as 
if  caused  by  the  scurrying  of  many  feet,  and  then 
all  was  quiet.  I  sat  there  wondering  what  was 


Blue  Field,  Arizona  47 

coming  next,  and  how  much  longer  I  had  to  live, 
when  I  smelled  smoke,  and  in  a  second  I  knew  the 
depot  was  on  fire.  I  tried  to  raise  the  trap-door, 
but  it  had  a  snap  lock  and  had  been  dropped  so 
hard  in  my  mad  efforts  to  get  away,  that  it  was 
securely  locked.  Good  God !  was  I  to  be  burned 
like  a  rat  in  a  trap?  All  was  quiet  save  the 
crackling  of  the  flames  as  they  licked  up  the  depot. 
Something  must  be  done  and  quickly  at  that,  or 
there  would  be  one  operator  who  would  receive 
his  conge  in  a  manner  that  was  anything  but 
pleasant.  Feverishly,  I  groped  around,  and  all  at 
once  my  hand  came  in  contact  with  the  Win- 
chester rifle.  I  grasped  it  by  the  barrel,  and  using 
it  as  a  battering  ram  I  started  to  smash  that  door. 
The  smoke  by  this  time  was  stifling,  suffocating, 
and  already  my  senses  were  leaving  me, — every- 
thing was  swimming  around  before  my  eyes,  but 
it  was  a  case  of  life  and  death,  and  I  hammered 
away  with  all  my  might.  Finally,  Crash !  Ah !  I 
had  succeeded,  the  lock  broke  and  in  a  moment  I 
had  pulled  myself  up  in  the  office. 

The  side  towards  the  door  was  all  ablaze  and 
escape  that  way  was  impossible,  so  I  picked  up  a 
chair  and  slammed  it  through  the  window  over  the 
table,  and  climbed  out  taking  a  loose  set  of  instru- 
ments with  me.  The  wires  were  still  working, 


48  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

and  above  the  crackle  of  the  flames  I  heard  "DS" 
still  calling  me.  I  reached  in  through  the  window 
and  simply  said, 

"Indians — depot  on  fire — have  saved  a  set  of 
instruments — will  call  you  later  when  I  can  fix  a 
wire,"  and  signed  my  name,  "Bates." 

My  lungs  were  filled  with  smoke  and  felt  like 
they  had  a  million  sharp  needles  sticking  in  them, 
but  thanks  to  my  lucky  stars,  I  was  not  otherwise 
hurt.  Everything  appeared  so  quiet  and  still  that 
I  was  dazed,  but  presently  I  heard  a  low  mum- 
bling of  voices  out  to  the  westwards.  I  made  my 
way  thither  and  found  the  population  (all  that  was 
left  of  it),  assembled.  When  I  staggered  up  to  a 
group  of  the  men,  they  turned  on  me  like  tigers, 
not  knowing  what  kind  of  an  animal  I  was.  I 
recognized  one  of  them  who  was  commonly  known 
as  "Full-House  Charley,"  and  weakly  said, 

"Don't  shoot,  Charley,  it's  Bates  the  night  op- 
erator at  the  depot." 

"Well !  where  the  devil  have  you  been  all  the 
time?  When  the  depot  was  burning  some  of  us 
went  over  there,  but  you'd  gone  some  place.  We 
couldn't  save  anything  so  we  let  'er  burn.  Your 
side  partner,  the  day  man,  was  killed  and  scalped." 

It  appeared  that  just  as  the  fight  was  the  hot- 
test, three  troops  of  the  — th  U.  S.  Colored  Cav- 


Blue  Field,  Arizona  49 

airy,  appeared  on  the  scene,  having  been  on  the 
trail  of  this  same  band  all  day.  They  made  short 
work  of  the  red  men  who  melted  away  to  the  fast- 
nesses of  the  Mogollons,  first  setting  fire  to  the 
depot,  the  troops  in  close  pursuit.  If  there  ever 
were  faithful  hard  working  fighters  in  that  coun- 
try, it  was  these  same  dusky  brunettes. 

I  told  the  gang  where  I  had  been,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  several  of  them  went  over  to  the  station 
to  help  me  rig  up  a  wire.'  I  knew  the  despatcher's 
wire,  and  taking  a  pole's  length  out  of  another 
line,  I  soon  made  a  connection  to  the  instrument  I 
had  saved.  It  was  no  go — the  wire  was  dead 
open.  Then  I  rigged  up  a  ground  by  running  a 
wire  to  a  pipe  that  ran  down  the  well,  and  in  test- 
ing I  found  the  wire  was  open  west.  I  called  up 
"DS,"  who  was  east  of  me,  and  told  him  what  a 
nice  hot  old  time  we  had  been  having  out  there. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  knew  there  was  trouble. 
Just  after  you  told  me  about  the  Indians  and  fire, 
Clear  Creek  said  their  place  was  attacked  by  an- 
other band  and  things  were  getting  pretty  hot 
with  them.  Then  the  wire  went  open,  caused  as 
I  supposed  by  your  fire,  but  now  it  seems  as  if 
Baird  is  probably  up  against  it  as  well.  A  train 
load  of  troops  will  come  through  in  a  short  while 
to  try  and  get  beyond  the  Indians  and  cut  them 


50  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

off.  If  you  are  able,  I  wish  you  would  flag  them 
and  go  over  to  Clear  Creek  and  report  from  there. 
Disconnect  and  take  your  instrument  and  leave  the 
line  cut  through.  A  line  man  will  be  sent  out 
from  here  in  the  morning.  Everything  is  tied  up 
on  the  road,  and  you  can  tell  the  C.  &  E.  there's 
nothing  ahead  of  them,  but  to  run  carefully,  keep- 
ing a  sharp  lookout  for  torn  up  track  and  burned 
trestles." 

My  experiences  had  been  so  exciting  and  the 
smoke  in  my  lungs  so  painful,  that  I  was  ready  to 
drop  from  fatigue;  but  then  I  thought  of  poor 
Fred  Baird  and  his  family,  and  I  said  I'd  go. 
The  troop  train  came  in  presently  and  I  boarded 
her.  It  did  my  heart  good  to  ride  on  that  engine 
with  "Daddy"  Blake  at  the  throttle,  and  think  that 
four  hundred  big  husky  American  regulars  were 
trailing  along  behind,  waiting  for  something  to 
turn  up  and  just  aching  for  a  crack  at  the  red  men. 

It  was  now  about  three  o'clock,  and  just  as  the 
first  rays  of  early  dawn  illumined  the  horizon,  we 
came  in  sight  of  Clear  Creek.  There  was  a  dull 
red  glow  against  the  sky,  that  told  only  too  well 
what  we  should  find.  The  place  had  not  been  as 
well  protected  as  Blue  Field,  and  the  slaughter 
was  something  fearful.  The  depot  was  nothing 
but  a  smoldering  mass  of  ruins,  and  but  a  short 


Blue  Field,  Arizona  51 

distance  away  we  came  upon  the  bodies  of  Baird, 
his  wife  and  two  children,  shot  to  pieces,  stripped, 
horribly  mutilated  and  scalped.  It  was  sickening, 
and  shortly  after,  when  the  troop  train  pulled  out 
for  Chiquito,  the  sense  of  loneliness  was  oppress- 
ing. A  few  people  had  escaped  by  hiding  in  ob- 
scure places  and  when  they  came  out  they  went  to 
work  and  buried  the  dead.  I  finally  succeeded  in 
getting  a  wire  through  and  then,  despite  the  heat, 
I  slept. 

The  next  day  the  troops  corralled  the  Indians, 
gave  them  a  good  licking  and  sent  them  back  to 
their  old  reservations.  And  yet  in  face  of  just 
such  incidents  as  these,  there  are  people  who  say 
that  poor  Lo  can  be  civilized. 

A  construction  gang  came  out  and  started  to 
re-build,  and  the  company  offered  me  a  good  day 
office  if  I  would  remain,  but  Nay !  Nay !  I  had 
had  all  I  wanted  of  Arizona,  and  I  went  back  to 
Texas,  thankful  that  I  had  a  whole  skin  and  a  full 
shock  of  red  hair. 


CHAPTER  VII 

TAKING    A    WHIRL    AT    COMMERCIAL  WORK MY 

FIRST  ATTEMPT THE  GALVESTON  FIRE 

THE  memory  of  my  exciting  experience  in  Ari- 
zona lasted  me  a  good  long  time,  and  I  finally  de- 
termined to  leave  the  railroad  service  and  try  my 
hand  at  commercial  work.  The  two  classes  are 
the  same,  and  yet  they  are  entirely  different. 

It  is  a  most  interesting  sight,  to  the  uninitiated, 
to  go  into  the  operating  room  of  a  big  commercial 
office  and  see  the  swarms  of  men  and  women  bend- 
ing over  glass  partitioned  tables;  nimble  footed 
check  boys  running  hither  and  thither  like  so 
many  flies,  carrying  to  each  wire  the  proper  mes- 
sages, while  the  volume  of  sound  that  greets  your 
ears  is  positively  deafening.  Every  once  in  a 
while  some  operator  will  raise  his  head  and  yell 
"Pink,"  "C.  N.  D."  or  "Wire."  "Pink"  means 
a  message  that  is  to  be  rushed;  "C.  N.  D."  is  a 
market  quotation  that  is  to  be  hurried  over  to  the 
Bucket  Shops  or  Stock  Exchange,  while  "Wire," 
means  a  message  that  pertains  to  some  wire  that 
is  in  trouble  and  such  messages  must  have  prece- 


A  Whirl  at  Commercial  Work      53 

dence  over  all  others.  The  check  boys  are  trained 
to  know  the  destination  of  each  and  every  wire 
and  work  under  the  direction  of  the  traffic  chief. 

Far  over  on  one  side  of  a  room  is  the  switch 
board.  To  the  untutored  mind  it  looks  like  num- 
berless long  parallel  strips  of  brass  tacked  on  the 
side  of  the  wall,  and  each  strip  perforated  by  a 
number  of  small  holes,  while  stuck  around,  in 
what  seems  endless  profusion,  are  many  gutta- 
percha-topped  brass  pegs.  Yet  through  all  this 
seeming  mass  of  confusion,  everything  is  in  apple 
pie  order,  and  each  one  of  those  strips  represents 
a  wire  and  every  plug  a  connection  to  some  set  of 
instruments.  The  wire  chief  and  his  assistants 
are  in  full  charge  of  this  work,  and  it  must  needs 
be  a  man  of  great  ability  to  successfully  fill  such  a 
place  in  a  large  office. 

The  chief  operator  has  entire  supervision  over 
the  whole  office,  and  his  duties  are  hard,  constant, 
and  arduous.  Like  competent  train  despatchers, 
men  able  to  be  first-class  chief  operators  are  few 
and  far  between.  Not  only  must  he  be  an  expert 
telegrapher,  but  he  must  thoroughly  understand 
line,  battery  and  switch  board  work,  and  his  ex- 
ecutive ability  must  be  of  the  highest  order. 

I  had  always  supposed  if  a  man  were  a 
first-class  railroad  operator  he  could  do  equally 


54  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

good  work  on  a  commercial  wire ;  in  fact  the  op- 
erator in  a  small  town  is  always  employed  by  the 
railroad  company  and  does  the  little  amount  of 
commercial  work  in  addition  to  his  other  duties. 

After  leaving  Blue  Field  I  loafed  a  while,  but 
that's  tiresome  work  at  best,  so  I  journeyed  down 
to  Galveston,  Texas,  one  bright  fall  morning,  and 
after  trying  my  luck  at  the  railroad  offices,  I  wan- 
dered into  the  commercial  office  on  the  Strand 
and  asked  George  Clarke,  the  chief  operator,  for  a 
job. 

"What  kind  of  a  man  are  you?"  he  said. 

"First-class  in  every  respect,  sir,"  I  replied. 

"Sit  down  there  on  the  polar  side  of  that  Hous- 
ton quad  and  if  you  are  any  account,  I'll  give  you 
a  job  at  seventy  dollars  per  month." 

Now  a  "Quad"  is  an  instrument  whereby  four 
messages  are  going  over  the  same  wire  at  the 
same  time.  The  mechanism  of  the  machine  is  dif- 
ferent in  every  respect  from  the  old  relay,  key  and 
sounder,  used  on  the  railroad  wires.  In  a  vague 
way  I  had  heard  of  "quads,"  and  imagined  I  could 
work  them  as  well  as  an  "O.  S."  wire,  but  when  he 
said  for  me  to  sit  down  on  the  "Polar  side,"  I  was, 
for  a  minute,  stumped.  However,  there  were  al- 
ready three  chaps  sitting  at  that  table,  so  the 
fourth  place  must  be  mine.  I  sat  down  and  pres- 


A  Whirl  at  Commercial  Work     55 

ently  I  heard  the  sounder  say,  "Who?"  I  an- 
swered "BY,"  and  then  "HO,"  said,  "Hr.  City,"  I 
grabbed  a  pen  and  made  ready  to  copy,  but  by  the 
time  he  had  finished  the  address  I  was  just  putting 
down  the  number  and  check.  "Break"  I  said, 
"G.  A.  from,"  B-r-r-r-r-  how  that  sounder  did 
jump.  This  interesting  operation  was  repeated 
several  times,  but  finally  I  succeeded  in  getting  the 
message  down,  and  then  without  giving  me  time 
to  draw  my  breath,  he  said,  "C.  N.  D."  and  started 
ahead  with  a  jargon  of  figures  and  words  that  I 
had  never  heard  of  before.  His  sending  was  plain 
enough,  in  fact  it  wras  like  a  circus  bill,  but  I 
vvasn't  on  to  the  combination,  and  it  was  all  Greek 
to  me.  Perspiration  started  from  every  pore,  and 
in  my  agony  I  said,  "Break,  G.  A.  Ahr.,"  Holy 
Smoke !  how  he  did  fly  off  at  that,  and  how  those 
other  three  chaps  did  grin  at  my  discomfiture. 

"Call  your  chief  operator  over  here,"  and  with 
that  he  refused  to  work  with  me  any  more.  Clarke 
came  over  and  that  blasted  chump  at  "HO"  said, 

"For  heaven's  sake  give  us  an  operator  to  do  the 
receiving  on  the  polar  side  of  this  quad.  We  are 
piled  up  with  business  and  can't  be  delayed  by 
teaching  the  ropes  to  a  railroad  ham.  He's  been 
ten  minutes  taking  one  message,  and  I  haven't 


56  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

been  able  to  pound  into  his  head  what  a  'C.  N.  D,' 
is  yet." 

Clarke  quietly  gave  him  "O.  K."  and  then 
turned  to  me  with, 

"I  guess  you  are  not  used  to  this  kind  of  work. 
Better  go  back  to  railroading,  and  learn  some- 
thing about  commercial  work  before  tackling  a  job 
like  this  again.  Come  back  in  six  months  and  I'll 
give  you  another  trial."  I  sneaked  out  of  the 
office,  followed  by  the  broad  smiles  of  every  man 
in  the  place,  and  thus  ended  the  first  lesson. 

I  took  Clarke's  advice  and  went  back  to  work  on 
a  narrow-gauge  road  running  northwards  out  of 
Houtson,  through  the  most  God-forsaken  country 
on  the  footstool.  Sluggish  bayous,  foul  rank 
growth  of  vegetation,  alligators  as  long  as  a  rail, 
that  would  come  out  and  stop  trains  by  being  on  the 
track,  and  air  so  malarious  in  quality  that  it  was 
only  a  question  of  time  until  one  had  the  fever. 
I  stuck  it  out  for  two  months  and  then  succumbed 
to  the  inevitable  and  went  to  the  hospital  where  I 
lay  for  three  weeks.  After  I  had  fully  recovered 
they  put  me  to  work  in  the  Houston  General 
Office,  and  some  eight  months  after  reaching  there 
I  received  a  message  from  my  old  friend  Clarke, 
saying,  "if  I  had  improved  any  in  my  commercial 
work  he  would  give  me  a  job  at  seventy  dollars  per 


A  Whirl  at  Commercial  Work     57 

month."  I  hadn't  improved  much,  but  as  this 
world  is  two-thirds  bluff,  I  made  mine,  and  said 
I'd  come,  trusting  to  luck  to  be  able  to  hold  on. 

I  reached  there  one  pleasant  afternoon  and  the 
next  morning  went  to  work.  I  must  have  had  my 
rabbit's  foot  with  me,  because  I  was  assigned  to  a 
"Way  Wire."  I  think  if  he  had  told  me  to  tackle 
a  "Quad,"  again,  I  should  have  fainted.  A  "Way 
Wire,"  is  one  that  runs  along  a  railroad,  having 
offices  cut  in  in  all  the  small  towns.  There  wasn't  a 
town  on  the  whole  string  that  had  more  than  ten 
or  fifteen  messages  a  day,  but  the  aggregate  of  all 
the  offices  made  up  a  very  good  day's  work.  Then 
again  I  didn't  have  to  handle  any  of  those  con- 
founded "C.  N.  D."  messages.  Clarke  watched 
me  closely  and  at  the  end  of  the  first  day  he  said 
my  work  showed  a  marked  improvement.  You 
may  rest  assured  I  watched  my  P's  and  Q's,  and  it 
wasn't  long  before  I  had  the  hang  of  the  system 
and  could  take  my  trick  on  a  "Quad"  with  the  best 
of  them.  Rheostats,  wheatstone  bridges,  polar- 
ized relays,  pole  changers,  and  ground  switches 
became  as  familiar  to  me  as  the  old  relay  key  and 
sounder  had  been. 

Some  of  the  rarest  gems  of  the  profession 
worked  in  "G"  office  at  this  time — George  Clarke, 
"Cy"  Clamphitt,  "Jack"  Graham,  Will  Church, 


58  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

John  McNeill,  Paul  Finnegan  alias  the  "Count," 
and  a  score  or  more  of  men,  as  good  as  ever 
touched  a  key  or  balanced  a  quad.  A  day's  work 
was  from  eight  A.  M.,  until  five  P.  M.,  and  for  all 
over  time  we  were  paid  extra  at  the  rate  of  forty 
cents  per  hour.  This  extra  work  was  called 
"Scooping." 

One  day  in  December,  Clarke  asked  me  if  I 
wanted  to  "scoop"  that  night.  I  acquiesced  and 
after  eating  a  hasty  supper  I  went  back  to  the 
office  and  prepared  for  a  long  siege.  I  was  put  to 
sending  press  reports,  which  is  just  about  as  hard 
work  as  a  man  can  do.  I  sent  "30"  (the  end)  at 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  went  home  worn 
to  a  frazzle.  I  was  boarding  on  Avenue  M.  with  ten 
other  operators,  in  a  house  kept  by  a  Mrs.  Swan- 
son,  and  roomed  with  her  little  son  Jimmie,  who 
was  a  hopeless  cripple.  I  undressed,  and  after 
shoving  little  Jim  over  to  his  own  side  of  the  bed, 
tumbled  in  and  was  soon  sleeping  like  a  log.  It 
seemed  as  if  I  had  just  closed  my  eyes  when  I  felt 
some  one  pulling  my  hair.  I  knocked  the  hand 
away  and  prepared  to  take  another  snooze,  when 
there  was  that  awful  pull  on  my  red  head  again.  I 
opened  my  eyes  prepared  to  fight,  when  I  felt  an 
extra  hard  pull,  and  heard  the  wee  sma'  voice  of 
my  diminutive  room  mate  say, 


A  Whirl  at  Commercial  Work      59 

"Get  up,  the  house  is  on  fire."  "Rats,"  I  said 
— Again, — the  awful  pull, — and, — "Mr.  Bates, 
for  God's  sake  get  up ;  the  house  is  on  fire ;  the 
whole  town  is  burning  up." 

I  sprang  out  of  bed  and  the  crackling  of  the 
timbers,  the  glow  of  the  flames,  and  the  stifling 
smoke,  soon  assured  me  it  was  time  to  move,  and 
quickly  at  that.  I  grabbed  up  a  few  clothes  in  one 
arm,  and  grasping  brave  little  Jimmie  Swanson  in 
the  other,  I  started  for  the  steps.  On  our  side, 
the  whole  house  was  in  flames,  and  the  smoke 
rushing  up  the  stair-way  was  something  awful.  I 
wrapped  Jimmie's  head  in  his  night  shirt,  and 
throwing  a  coat  over  mine,  I  started  down  the 
stairs.  Half  way  down  my  foot  slipped,  and  we 
both  pitched  head  first  to  the  bottom.  Poor  little 
Jim,  his  right  arm  was  broken  by  the  fall,  and 
when  he  tried  to  get  up,  he  found  that  his  one 
sound  leg  was  badly  strained.  He  said, 

"Never  mind  me,  Mr.  Bates,  save  yourself.  I'll 
crawl  out." 

Leave  him  to  roast  alive  ?  Never !  I  grabbed  him 
again  and  after  a  desperate  effort  succeeded  in  get- 
ting him  out.  All  our  supply  of  clothing  had  been 
lost  in  our  mad  efforts  to  escape,  and  as  a  bitter 
norther  was  blowing  at  the  time,  our  position  was 
anything  but  pleasant.  I  found  a  few  clothes 


60  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

dropped  by  some  one  else  and  we  made  ourselves 
as  warm  as  possible.  Then  I  grabbed  Jimmie  up 
again  and  fled  before  the  fiery  blast.  The  awful 
catastrophe  had  started  in  a  fisherman's  shack 
over  on  the  bay,  twenty-seven  squares  from  where 
we  lived,  and  being  borne  by  a  high  wind,  had 
swept  everything  in  its  path.  The  houses  were 
mostly  of  timber  and  were  easy  prey  to  the  relent- 
less flames.  Although  Galveston  is  entirely  sur- 
rounded by  water,  the  pipe-lines  for  fighting  fire 
at  this  time  extended  only  to  Avenue  H,  ten  blocks 
from  the  Strand.  Beyond  that,  the  fire  depart- 
ment depended  on  the  cisterns  of  private  houses 
for  the  water  to  subdue  the  flames. 

With  lightning-like  rapidity  the  flames  had 
spread  and  almost  before  they  knew  it  the  town 
seemed  doomed.  Arches  of  flame,  myriads  of 
falling  sparks,  hundreds  of  fleeing  half-clad  men, 
women  and  children,  the  hissing  of  the  engines  in 
their  puny  attempts  to  fight  the  monster,  and  ever 
and  anon  the  dull  roar  of  the  falling  walls,  made  a 
scene,  as  grand  and  weird  as  it  was  desolate  and 
awful.  In  less  than  two  hours  time  fifty-two 
squares  had  been  laid  waste,  leaving  a  trail  of 
smoldering  black  ashes.  That  the  whole  city  did 
not  go  is  due  to  a  providential  switch  of  the  wind 
that  blew  the  flames  back  on  their  own  tracks. 


A  Whirl  at  Commercial  Work     61 

Of  the  fifteen  operators  in  the  day  force,  twelve 
had  been  burned  out,  and  the  next  morning,  at 
eight  o'clock,  when  all  had  reported  for  duty,  they 
were  as  sorry  a  looking  lot  of  men  as  ever 
assembled. 

"Some  in  rags,  some  in  jags,  and  one  in  velvet 
gown."  "Count"  Finnegan  had  on  a  frilled 
shirt,  a  pair  of  trousers  three  sizes  too  small  for 
him,  and  his  manly  form  was  wrapped  in  a  flow- 
ing robe  of  black  velvet,  picked  up  by  him  in  his 
mad  flight. 

It  was  many  a  day  before  the  effects  of  this 
direful  calamity  were  entirely  obliterated. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SENDING     A     MESSAGE     PERFORCE — RECOGNIZING 
AN    OLD    FRIEND    BY    HIS    STUFF 

SOME  time  after  this  I  was  in  Fort  Worth  copy- 
ing night  reports  at  eighty  dollars  per  month.  The 
night  force  consisted  of  two  other  men  besides  my- 
self. The  "split  trick"  man  worked  until  ten 
o'clock,  the  other  chap  stayed  around  until  twelve, 
or  until  he  was  clear,  while  I  hung  on  until  "30" 
on  report  which  came  anywhere  from  one-thirty 
until  four  A.  M.  After  midnight  I  had  to  handle 
all  the  business  that  came  along. 

When  I  had  received  "30"  I  would  cut  out  the 
instruments  and  go  home. 

One  morning,  about  two-thirty  I  had  said  "G. 
N."  to  Galveston,  cut  out  the  instruments,  put  out 
the  lights  in  the  operating  room,  and  started  to  go 
home  through  the  receiving  room  and  I  was  about 
to  put  out  the  last  light  there,  when  the  outer  door 
opened  and  in  staggered  a  half  drunken  ranchman 
who  said, 

"Hold  on  there,  young  fellow,  I  want  to  send  a 
message  to  St.  Louis." 

62 


Sending  a  Message  Perforce        63 

"I'm  sorry,  but  it's  too  late  to  send  it  now.  All 
the  instruments  are  cut  out  and  we  wont  have  St. 
Louis  until  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Come 
around  then  and  some  of  the  day  force  will  send  it 
for  you." 

"But,"  he  said  in  a  maudlin  voice,  "I've  got 
nineteen  cars  of  cattle  out  here  that  are  going  up 
there  to-morrow  and  I  want  to  notify  my  agents." 

I  persisted  in  my  refusal  and  was  beginning  to 
get  hot  under  the  collar,  but  my  bucolic  friend  also 
had  a  temper  and  showed  it. 

"D — n  it,"  he  said,  "you  send  this  message  or 
there  is  going  to  be  trouble." 

"Not  much,  I  won't  send  your  confounded  old 
message.  Get  out  of  this  office :  I'm  going  home." 

Just  then  I  heard  an  ominous  click  and  in  a  sec- 
ond I  was  gazing  down  the  barrel  of  a  .45,  and  he 
said, 

"Now  will  you  send  it?  You'd  better  or  I'll 
send  you  to  a  home  that  will  be  a  permanent  one." 

A  .45,  especially  when  it  is  loaded,  cocked  and 
pointed  at  your  head,  with  a  half  drunken  galoot's 
finger  on  the  trigger,  is  a  powerful  incentive  to 
quick  action. 

"Give  me  your  blamed  old  message,  and  I'll 
send  it  for  you." 

Now  there  wasn't  a  through  wire  to  any  place 


64  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

at  the  time,  but  I  had  thought  of  a  scheme  to  stave 
him  off.  I  took  his  telegram,  went  over  and  mon- 
keyed around  the  switch  board  for  a  while,  and 
then  sat  down  to  a  local  instrument  and  went 
through  the  form  of  sending  a  message.  My 
whole  salvation  lay  in  the  hope  that  he  was  not  an 
operator  and  would  fail  to  discover  my  ruse.  I 
glanced  at  him  furtively  out  of  the  corner  of  my 
eye,  and  there  he  stood,  pistol  in  hand,  grinning 
like  a  monkey  and  swaying  to  and  fro  like  a  reed 
in  the  wind.  I  didn't  know  what  that  grin  por- 
tended for  me,  but  after  I  had  gone  through  the 
form  of  sending  the  telegram,  I  hung  it  up  on  the 
hook,  and  turned  around  with, 

"There,  I  hope  you  are  satisfied  now.  Your 
blamed  old  message  has  been  sent." 

"Satisfied !  Why  certainly  I'm  satisfied.  I  just 
wanted  to  show  you  that  the  Western  Union  Com- 
pany wasn't  the  whole  push.  Come  on  over  to 
the  White  Elephant  with  me  and  we'll  have  a 
drink  together,  just  to  show  there's  no  hard  feel- 
ings between  us,"  and  with  that  he  put  away  his 
pistol  and  we  went  out.  On  the  way  over  to  the 
Elephant  he  said, 

"Say,  kid,  did  you  think  I'd  shoot  if  you  hadn't 
sent  the  message  ?" 


Sending  a  Message  Perforce        65 

"Well,"  I  replied,  "I  wasn't  taking  any  chances 
on  the  matter." 

Then  he  laughed  loud  enough  to  be  heard  a 
block  away  and  said,  "Why,  that  pistol  hasn't 
been  loaded  for  six  months,  I  was  just  running  a 
bluff  on  you,  and  you  bit  like  a  fish." 

Good  joke,  wasn't  it  ?  We  had  our  drink,  and 
his  message  was  sent  by  one  of  the  day  force,  at 
eight-tivelve  A.  M. 

The  Morse  telegraphic  alphabet  is  exactly  the 
same  the  world  over,  and  yet  each  operator  has  a 
peculiarity  to  his  sending,  or  "stuff,"  as  it  is  called, 
that  makes  it  easy  to  recognize  an  old  friend,  even 
though  his  name  be  changed. 

In  the  early  part  of  my  career,  when  I  was 
working  days  at  X — ,  in  Nebraska,  at  Sweeping 
Water  there  was  a  chap  called  Ned  Kingsbury 
holding  down  the  night  job,  and  as  wild  a  young- 
ster as  ever  hit  the  road.  One  night  when 
I  was  sitting  up  a  little  late  I  heard  the  despatcher 
give  Ned  an  order  for  a  train  that  ordinarily 
would  not  stop  there.  Ned  repeated  it  back  all 
right  enough,  and  then  gave  the  signal,  "6,"  which 
meant  that  he  had  turned  his  red-light  to  the 
track  and  would  hold  it  there  until  the  order  was 
delivered  and  understood.  So  far,  so  good.  But 
the  reckless  little  devil  had  forgotten  to  turn  his 


66  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

red-board  and  proceeded  to  write  to  some  of  his 
numerous  girls,  and  the  first  thing  he  knew  that 
freight  train  went  smashing  by  at  a  thirty-five 
mile  clip,  and  Mr.  Ned  knew  he  was  up  against  it. 

In  some  states  a  rail-roader  guilty  of  criminal 
negligence  is  sent  up  for  a  term  of  from  one  to 
ten  years.  The  smash  up  that  resulted  from 
Ned's  carelessness  was  a  catastrophe  of  the  fatal 
kind;  one  engineer  was  killed,  and  a  fire- 
man and  brakeman  or  two  laid  up  for  months 
He  fully  realized  the  magnitude  of  his  offence  and 
promptly  skipped  away  from  the  wrath  that  was 
sure  to  follow,  and  nothing  more  was  heard  of 
him  in  that  section  of  the  country. 

This  all  happened  a  number  of  years  before  I 
went  to  work  in  Fort  Worth,  and  one  morning  I 
was  doing  a  little  "scooping,"  by  working  days, 
and  sat  down  to  send  on  the  "DA"  quad.  I 
worked  hard  for  about  two  hours  on  the  polar 
side,  and  was  sending  to  some  cracker  jack,  who 
signed  "KY."  Shortly  after  that  I  changed  over 
to  the  receiving  side  and  "KY"  did  the  sending 
to  me.  I  had  been  taking  about  ten  messages  and 
the  conviction  was  growing  on  me  momentarily 
that  the  sending  was  very  familiar  and  that  I  must 
have  known  the  sender.  Where  had  I  heard  that 
peculiar  jerky  sending  before?  It  was  as  plain  as 


Sending  a  Message  Perforce        67 

print,  but  there  was  an  individuality  about  it  that 
belonged  only  to  one  man.  All  at  once  that  night 
in  Nebraska  flashed  on  my  mind  and  I  knew  my 
sender  was  none  other  than  Ned  Kingsbury.  I 
broke  him  and  said, 

"Hello,  Ned  Kingsbury,  where  did  you  come 
from  ?" 

"You've  got  the  wrong  man  this  time,  sonny, 
my  name  is  Pillsbury,"  he  replied. 

"Oh !  come  off.  I'd  know  that  combination  of 
yours  if  I  heard  it  in  Halifax.  Didn't  you  work 
at  Sweeping  Water,  Nebraska,  some  time  ago, 
and  didn't  you  have  some  kind  of  a  queer  smash 
up  there?" 

Then  he  'fessed  up  and  said  he  had  recognized 
my  stuff  as  soon  as  he  heard  it,  but  hadn't  said 
anything  in  hopes  I  wouldn't  twig  him. 

"Don't  give  me  away,  old  chap.  I'm  flying  the 
flag  now  and  have  lost  all  my  former  brashness." 

I  never  did. 


CHAPTER  IX 

BILL   BRADLEY,    GAMBLER   AND   GENTLEMAN. 

TELEGRAPHERS  are,  as  a  rule,  a  very  nomadic 
class,  wandering  hither  and  thither  like  a  chip  buf- 
feted about  on  the  ocean.  Their  pathway  is  not 
always  one  of  roses,  and  many  times  their  feet  are 
torn  by  the  jagged  rocks  of  adversity.  I  was  no 
different  from  any  of  the  rest,  neither  better  nor 
worse,  and  many  a  night  I  have  slept  with  only  the 
deep  blue  sky  for  a  covering,  and  it  may  be  added 
— sotto  voce — it  is  not  a  very  warm  blanket  on  a 
cold  night.  'Tis  said,  an  operator  of  the  first  class 
can  always  procure  work,  but  there  are  times  when 
even  the  best  of  them  are  on  their  uppers.  For 
instance,  when  winter's  chill  blasts  sweep  across 
the  hills  and  dales  of  the  north,  like  swarms  of 
swallows,  operators  flit  southwards  to  warmer 
climes,  and  for  this  reason  the  supply  is  often 
greater  than  the  demand. 

I  was  a  "flitter"  of  the  first  water,  and  after  I 
had  been  in  Fort  Worth  for  a  very  short  while  I 
became  possessed  of  a  desire  to  see  something  of 
68 


Gambler  and  Gentleman  69 

the  far  famed  border  towns  along  the  Rio  Grande 
frontier.  So  I  went  south  to  a  town  called  Hall- 
ville,  and  found  it  a  typical  tough  frontier  town. 
I  landed  there  all  right  enough  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  gently  strand.  Work  was  not  to  be 
had,  money  I  had  none,  and  my  predicament 
can  be  imagined.  Many  of  you  have  doubt- 
less been  on  the  frontier  and  know  what  these 
places  are.  There  was  the  usual  number  of  gam- 
bling dens,  dance  halls  and  saloons,  and  of  course 
they  had  their  variety  theatre.  Ever  go  into  one 
of  the  latter  places?  The  first  thing  that  greets 
your  eye  is  a  big  black  and  white  sign  "Buy  a 
drink  and  see  the  show."  Inside,  at  one  end,  is  the 
long  wooden  bar,  presided  over  by  some  thug  of 
the  highest  order,  with  a  big  diamond  stuck  in  the 
centre  of  a  broad  expanse  of  white  shirt  front. 
At  the  other  end  is  the  so-called  stage,  while  scat- 
tered about  indiscriminately  are  the  tables  and 
chairs.  The  air  is  filled — yea,  reeking — with  the 
fumes  of  bad  whiskey,  stale  beer,  and  the  odor  of 
foul  smelling  cheap  tobacco  smoke,  and  through 
all  this  haze  the  would-be  "show,"  goes  on,  and 
the  applause  is  manifested  by  whistles,  cat  calls, 
the  pounding  of  feet  on  the  floor  and  glasses  on 
the  tables.  Occasionally  some  artist  (?)  will  ap- 
pear who  does  not  seem  to  strike  the  popular  fancy 


jo  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

and  will  be  greeted  by  a  beer  glass  or  empty  bottle 
being  fired  at  his  or  her  head. 

Now,  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  my  pros- 
pects were  very  slim,  and  as  nature  had  endowed 
me  with  a  fair  singing  voice,  I  had  just  about 
made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  the  Palace  Variety 
Theatre  and  ask  for  a  position  as  a  vocalist.  I 
could,  at  least,  sing  as  well  as  some  of  the  theat- 
rical bygones  that  graced  the  place.  The  price  of 
admission  in  one  of  these  places  is  simply  the  price 
of  a  drink.  I  felt  in  my  pocket  and  found  that  I 
had  one  solitary  lonely  dime,  and  swinging  aside 
the  green  baize  door,  I  entered. 

"Gimme  a  beer,"  I  said  laying  down  my  dime. 
A  small  glass,  four-fifths  froth  and  one-fifth  beer, 
was  skated  at  me  by  the  bartender  from  the  other 
end  of  the  counter,  and  my  dime  was  raked  into 
the  till. 

Then  I  stood  around  like  a  bump  on  a  log,  try- 
ing to  screw  my  courage  up  to  ask  the  blear  eyed, 
red-nosed  Apollo  for  a  job.  Some  hack  voiced  old 
chromo  was  trying  to  warble  "Do  they  miss  me 
at  home,"  and  mentally  I  thought  "if  he  had  ever 
sung  like  that  when  he  was  at  home  they  were 
probably  glad  he  had  left."  The  scene  was  sick- 
ening and  disgusting  to  me,  but  empty  stomachs 
stand  not  on  ceremony,  so  I  turned  around  and 


Gambler  and  Gentleman  71 

was  just  about  to  accost  the  proprietor,  when 
Biff!  I  felt  a  stinging  whack  between  my 
shoulders.  Quickly  I  faced  about,  all  the  risibil- 
ity of  my  red  headed  nature  coming  to  the  sur- 
face, and  there  I  saw  a  big  handsome  chap  stand- 
ing in  front  of  me.  Six  feet  tall,  broad-shoul- 
dered, straight,  lithe  limbs,  denoting  herculean 
strength,  a  massive  head  poised  on  a  well  shaped 
neck,  two  cold  blue  eyes,  and  a  face  covered  by  a 
bushy  brown  beard ;  dressed  in  well  fitting  clothes, 
trousers  tucked  in  the  tops  of  shiny  black  boots, 
long  Prince  Albert  coat  and  a  broad  sombrero  set 
rakishly  on  one  side  of  his  head.  Such  was  the 
man  who  hit  me  in  the  back. 

"Hello,  youngster,  what's  your  name?" 
Rubbing   my  lame    shoulder,  I  said,  "Well  it 
might  be  Jones  and  it  might  be  Smith,  but  it  ain't, 
and  I  don't  know  what  affair  it  is  of  yours,  any 
way." 

"Oh !  come  now,  boy,  don't  get  huffy.  You've 
got  an  honest  face  and  appear  to  be  in  trouble. 
What  is  it?  Out  with  it.  You're  evidently  a 
tenderfoot  and  this  hell-hole  of  vice  isn't  a  place 
for  a  boy  of  your  years.  What's  your  name? 
Come  over  here  at  this  table  and  sit  down  and  tell 
me." 


72  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

Something  in  his  bluff  hearty  manner  gave  me 
hope  and  after  sitting  down,  I  said. 

"My  name  is  Martin  Bates.  I'm  a  telegraph 
operator  by  profession  and  blew  into  this  town 
this  morning  on  my  uppers.  I  can't  get  work  and 
I  haven't  a  red  cent  to  my  name.  It  is  necessary 
for  me  to  live,  and  as  I  can  sing  a  little  bit,  I  came 
in  here  to  see  if  I  could  get  a  job  warbling.  I 
won't  beg  or  steal,  and  there  is  no  one  here  I  can 
borrow  from.  There's  my  story.  Not  a  very 
pleasant  one  is  it?" 

"There  may  have  been  worse.  How  long  since 
you've  had  anything  to  eat." 

"Nine  o'clock  this  morning,"  I  grimly  replied. 
"Good  Lord,  that's  twelve  hours  ago.     Come 
on  with  me  out  of  here  and  I'll  fix  you  up." 

Meekly  I  followed  my  new  found  friend.  I 
was  sick  at  heart,  weary  and  worn  out  in  body  and 
I  didn't  care  a  rap  whether  school  kept  or  not; 
anything  would  be  better  than  my  present  situa- 
tion. He  took  me  about  three  blocks  up  the  main 
street  and  we  went  into  a  suite  of  beautifully  fur- 
nished rooms.  He  rang  a  bell,  a  darkey  came  in, 
and  it  wasn't  long  before  I  had  a  lunch  in  front  of 
me  fit  for  the  gods,  and  I  may  add  it  didn't  take 
me  many  minutes  to  get  outside  of  it.  My  friend 


Gambler  and  Gentleman  73 

watched  me  narrowly  while  I  was  eating,  and 
when  I  had  finished  he  said, 

"Now  youngster,  you're  all  tired  out.  You  go 
to  bed  in  the  next  room  and  get  a  good  night's 
sleep.  In  the  morning  we'll  see  what  we  can  do 
for  you,  but  one  thing  is  certain,  you're  not  going 
into  that  vile  hole  of  a  Palace  Theatre  again. 
Somewhere  in  this  world  you  have  a  father  and 
mother  who  are  praying  for  you  this  night.  Don't 
make  a  slip  in  your  pathway  in  life  and  break  their 
hearts.  Everything  is  safe  and  quiet  here  and  no 
one  will  disturb  you  until  I  come  in  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

There  was  a  peculiar  earnestness  in  his  voice  as 
he  spoke  that  was  very  convincing,  and  as  he  rose 
to  go  out,  I  meekly  said, 

"What's  your  name,  mister?" 

"Bill  Bradley,"  he  answered  with  a  queer  smile. 
"Now  don't  you  ask  any  more  questions  to-night," 
and  with  that  he  was  gone. 

I  went  to  bed  almost  sick  from  my  exposure  and 
lack  of  food,  and  just  as  the  old  sand  man  of 
childhood's  happy  days  began  to  sprinkle  his 
grains  in  my  eyes,  I  heard,  way  off  in  the  dis- 
tance, a  peculiar  click  and  a  drawling  voice  calling 
off  some  numbers.  "Four."  "Sixteen."  "Thirty- 
three."  "Seventy-eight."  "Ten."  "Twenty- 


74  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

six,"  and  then,  a  great  shout  arose  and  some  one 
called  out  "KENO."  Ah !  I  was  near  a  gambling 
house,  but  I  was  too  tired  to  care,  nature  asserted 
herself,  and  I  gently  crossed  the  river  into  the 
land  of  Nod. 

The  next  morning  I  was  really  sick  with  a  high 
fever,  and  when  Bill  came  in  I  was  well  nigh 
loony. 

"Hello,"  he  said,  "this  won't  do.  Tom,  I  say, 
you  Tom,  go  and  tell  Doctor  Bailey  I  want  him 
here  quick.  D — n  quick.  Do  you  hear?"  and 
black  Tom  answered,  "Yas,  suh." 

To  be  brief,  I  was  three  weeks  on  my  back,  and 
bluff  old  Bill  Bradley  nursed  me  like  a  loving 
mother  would  a  sick  child.  Day  and  night  he  hung 
over  me,  never  a  thing  did  I  need  but  what  he  pro- 
cured for  me,  and  one  day  after  the  fever  had  left 
me  and  I  was  sitting  up  by  an  open  window,  I 
said, 

"Mr.  Bradley,  what  do  you  do  for  a  living?" 

"Boy,"  he  replied  with  a  flushed  face,  "I  am 
sorry  you  asked  that  question,  but  sooner  or  later 
you  would  have  heard  it  and  I'd  a  great  deal 
rather  tell  you  about  it  myself.  I'm  a  gambler 
and  these  three  rooms  adjoin  my  place  which  is 
called  the  "Three  Nines,"  and  then  he  told  me  the 
story  of  his  life.  He  was  a  son  of  a  fine  Connecti- 


Gambler  and  Gentleman  75 

cut  family,  a  graduate  of  Harvard,  and  in  his  day 
had  been  a  very  able  young  lawyer  with  brilliant 
prospects,  but  one  night,  he  went  out  with  a  crowd 
of  roystering  chaps,  the  lie  was  passed,  and — it 
was  the  old  story, — he  came  to  Texas  for  a  refuge. 
The  great  civil  war  was  just  over,  the  country  in  a 
chaotic  state,  and  there  he  had  remained  ever 
since.  Thrown  with  wild,  uncouth  men,  and  be- 
ing reckless  in  the  extreme,  he  opened  a  gambling 
house. 

"Why  did  you  take  this  great  interest  in  me?" 
I  asked. 

"Look  here,  young  chap,  you  are  altogether  too 
inquisitive.  I've  got  an  old  father  and  mother 
way  up  in  Ball  Brooke,  Connecticut,  whose  hearts 
have  been  broken  by  my  actions,  and  when  I  saw 
you  in  that  hellish  den  of  vice  you  looked  so  out  of 
place  that  I  determined  to  save  you.  It  was  im- 
pulse, my  boy,  and  then  again,  it  may  have  been 
the  remembrance  of  the  one,  at  whose  knee  I  used 
to  lisp,  'Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep.'  " 

My  recovery  was  very  rapid  from  that  time  on, 
and  when  I  was  able  to  work  I  secured  a  position 
in  the  commercial  office  in  Hallville.  One  evening 
after  being  paid  I  strolled  into  the  "Three  Nines;" 
Bill  was  dealing  faro,  and  I  thought  I  might  in  a 
measure,  show  my  gratitude  towards  him  by  risk- 


76  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

ing  a  com.  There  was  a  big  crowd  standing 
around  the  table,  but  I  edged  my  way  in  and 
placed  a  dollar  on  the  queen  to  win.  Luck  was 
with  me  and  I  won.  Once,  twice,  thrice,  did  the 
cards  come  my  way,  and  my  stack  of  whites  and 
reds  was  growing.  This  didn't  seem  to  me  much 
like  gratitude  to  win  a  man's  money,  and  I  wished 
I  hadn't  started.  Presently  Bill  looked  up,  and 
spying  me,  pointed  to  my  stack  of  chips,  and  said, 
"Whose  stack  is  that?"  "Mine,"  I  replied,  and 
with  one  fell  swoop  he  dashed  the  chips  into  the 
rack,  and  taking  a  ten-dollar  bill  from  the  drawer, 
he  turned  to  his  side  partner  and  said,  "Jim,  take 
the  deal,"  and  then  he  got  up,  took  me  by  the  arm, 
saying,  "You  come  with  me." 

Feeling  like  a  sneak  I  followed  him,  and  when 
we  had  reached  his  sitting-room,  he  sat  down  and 
said, 

"Kid,  how  much  were  you  in  on  that  deal  ?" 

"Just  one  dollar,"  I  replied. 

Then  he  looked  at  me,  his  eyes  shone  like  coals 
of  fire,  and  he  said, 

"Look  here  boy,  here's  ten  dollars.  If  you  are 
ever  hard  up  and  want  money  come  to  me,  and  I'll 
give  it  to  you  willingly,  but  don't  you  ever  let  me 
see  or  hear  of  you  staking  a  cent  on  a  card  again. 
I'm  running  a  gambling  house,  and  as  gambling 


Gambler  and  Gentleman  77 

houses  go,  it's  an  honest  one,  but  I'm  not  out 
plucking  lambs  like  you.  Your  intentions  were 
probably  good  but  don't  you  ever  do  it  again.  If 
you  really  want  to  show  your  gratitude  for  what 
I  have  done  for  you,  promise  me  honestly  that  you 
will  never  gamble." 

I  felt  very  much  humiliated,  but  took  his  words 
of  advice,  promised,  and  have  never  flipped  a  coin 
on  a  card  since  that  night. 

Bill  was  a  married  man,  and  in  addition  to  his 
suite  of  rooms  spoken  of,  he  had  a  very  nice  resi- 
dence on  Capitol  Hill.  His  suite  was  a  side  issue, 
to  be  used  when  the  games  were  running  high.  I 
had  never  met  Mrs.  Bradley,  but  during  my  illness 
I  had  evidence  every  day  of  her  goodness  in  the 
shape  of  many  delicacies  that  found  their  way  to 
my  bedside.  I  had  asked  Bill  time  and  again  to 
take  me  out  to  meet  his  wife,  but  he  always  put  me 
off  on  one  pretext  or  another. 

When  I  started  to  work,  I  had  secured  a  room 
at  the  house  of  a  Mrs.  Slade.  She  had  three 
daughters  and  one  Sunday  afternoon  we  were  all 
out  walking  together,  when  one  of  them  pointed 
to  a  very  fine  residence  and  said,  "That's  the 
residence  of  Bill  Bradley,  the  big  gambler." 

Just  then  Bill  and  his  wife  came  driving  by  be- 
hind a  spanking  team  of  bays.  Quick  as  a  flash 


78  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

my  hat  came  off,  and  I  bowed  low.  Bill  saw  it  and 
very  cavalierly  returned  my  salute.  The  elder 
Miss  Slade  turned  on  me  like  a  tigress,  and  said, 

"Mr.  Bates,  do  you  know  who  that  man  is? 
Do  you  know  what  he  is  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know  him  very  well,"  I  replied. 

"Then  what  do  you  mean  by  insulting  us  by 
speaking  to  such  a  man  ?  I  did  not  know  that  you 
associated  with  men  of  his  ilk." 

In  a  plain  unvarnished  way  I  told  them  of  Bill 
Bradley's  kindness  to  me,  but  it  was  no  go,  and 
as  I  would  not  renounce  my  liking  for  the  man 
who  had  been  my  benefactor,  my  room  in  their 
house  became  preferable  to  my  society  and  I  left. 

The  next  evening  I  saw  Bill  in  his  rooms,  and 
he  said, 

"Martin,  yesterday,  when  Mrs  Bradley  and  I 
drove  by  you  and  the  Slade  girls,  you  spoke  to  me 
and  lifted  your  hat  to  Mrs.  Bradley.  I  could  do 
naught  but  return  the  salute.  Now  my  boy,  there's 
no  use  of  my  mincing  words  with  you;  I  be- 
friended you,  probably  saved  you  from  ruin,  but 
young  as  you  are,  you  know  full  well  that  our 
paths  do  not  lie  parallel  with  each  other.  I  am  a 
gambler,  and  although  Mrs.  Bradley  is  as  good  a 
woman  as  ever  lived,  (and  I'd  kill  the  first  man 
that  said  she  wasn't)  we  are  not  recognized  by 


Gambler  and  Gentleman  79 

society;  no,  not  even  by  the  riff  raff  that  liye  in 
Hallville.  You  have  your  way  to  carve  in  the 
world,  don't  ruin  it  right  at  the  outset  by  letting 
people  know  you  are  friendly  with  gamblers.  No 
matter  how  good  your  motives  may  be,  this  scoff- 
ing world  will  always  miscontrue  them  and  cen- 
sure you." 

This  made  me  hot  and  I  told  him  so.  No 
matter  if  he  was  a  gambler,  he  was  more  of  a 
gentleman  than  nine-tenths  of  the  men  of  society, 
yes,  men,  who  would  come  and  gamble  half  the 
night  away  in  his  place,  and  then  go  forth  the 
next  day  and  pose  as  models  of  propriety. 

The  upshot  of  the  whole  business  was  that  I 
left  Hallville  soon  after  this  and  went  to  San  An- 
tonio to  take  day  report,  and  one  day  I  picked  up 
a  paper,  and  read  an  account  of  how  Bill  Bradley 
had  been  assassinated  by  a  cowardly  cur  who  had 
a  grudge  against  him.  He  was  stabbed  in  the 
back,  and  thus  ended  the  career  of  Bill  Bradley, 
gambler  and  gentleman. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  DEATH  OF  JIM  CARTWRIGHT CHASED 

OFF  A  WIRE  BY  A  WOMAN 

I  DIDN'T  stay  at  San  Antonio  very  long  after 
this  but  started  northwards.  You  see  it  was 
getting  to  be  warm  weather.  The  first  place  I 
struck  was  a  night  job  in  a  smashing  good  town 
up  near  the  south  line  of  the  pan  handle.  I  quit 
working  at  midnight,  and  to  get  to  my  boarding 
house  had  to  walk  a  mile  through  a  portion  of  the 
town  called  "Hell's  half-acre,"  to  get  to  my  board- 
ing house. 

The  most  prominent  place  of  any  description  in 
the  city  was  a  saloon  and  gambling  house  known 
as  the  "Blue  Goose,"  owned  by  John  Waring  and 
Luke  Ravel.  Both  men  were  as  nervy  as  they 
make  'em  and  several  nicks  in  the  butts  of  their 
revolvers  testified  mutely  as  to  their  prowess. 
Their  place  was  like  all  other  dens,  and  consisted 
of  the  usual  bar  and  lunch  counter  in  one  room, 
while  in  the  adjoining  one  was  the  hall  of  gaming. 
Faro,  roulette,  hazard,  monte,  and  the  great 
national  game,  poker,  held  high  carnival  there 
80 


The  Death  of  Jim  Cartwright     81 

nightly.  Next  to  the  "Goose"  was  a  long  narrow 
room  used  as  a  shooting  gallery.  The  place  was 
only  a  few  doors  around  the  corner  from  my 
office,  and  many  a  night  on  my  way  home  I 
would  stop  at  the  lunch  counter  and  have  a  sand- 
wich and  a  cup  of  coffee.  I  remembered  my 
promise  to  bluff  old  Bill  Bradley,  and  was  never 
tempted  to  go  in  the  gambling  hall.  .1  generally 
used  to  rise  about  noon  each  day  and  go  up  town 
and  loaf  until  four  o'clock,  when  it  was  time  to  go 
to  work.  I  picked  up  a  speaking  acquaintance 
with  Luke  Ravel,  and  sometimes  we  would  go  into 
the  shooting  gallery  together  and  have  a  friendly 
bout  with  the  Flobert  rifles. 

At  this  time  there  was  one  of  those  tough 
characters  in  the  town  named  Jim  Cartwright.  In 
days  gone  by  he  had  been  a  deputy  United  States 
Marshal,  and  one  time  took  advantage  of  his 
official  position  to  provoke  a  quarrel  with  an 
enemy  and  killed  him  in  cold  blood.  Public  in- 
dignation ran  high  and  Jim  had  to  skip  to  Mexico. 
He  stayed  away  two  years  and  getting  in  trouble 
over  there,  came  back  to  his  old  stamping  grounds 
in  hopes  the  people  had  forgotten  his  former 
scrape.  They  hadn't  exactly  forgotten  it,  but 
Jim  was  a  pretty  tough  character  and  no  one 
seemed  to  care  to  tackle  him. 


82  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

One  night  Luke  Ravel  and  Jim  had  some  words 
over  a  game  of  cards,  and  bad  blood  was  en- 
gendered between  them.  The  next  day  my  side 
partner  Frank  Noel,  and  I  went  into  the  shooting 
gallery  to  try  our  luck,  and  were  standing  there 
enjoying  ourselves,  when  Luke  came  in  and  took 
a  hand.  He  was  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion, 
and  while  we  three  were  standing  there,  Jim  Cart- 
wright,  three  sheets  in  the  wind,  appeared  in  the 
doorway  pistol  in  hand.  He  looked  at  Luke  and 
said,  with  an  oath, 

"Look  here,  Luke  Ravel,  your  time  has  come. 
I'm  going  to  kill  you." 

My  hair  arose,  my  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating, 
but  there  was  no  way  out,  so  Noel  and  I  edged  our 
way  over  as  far  as  possible,  and  held  our  breath. 
Luke  never  turned  a  hair,  nor  changed  color.  He 
was  as  cool  as  an  iceberg,  and  squarely  facing 
Cartwright  said, 

"You  wouldn't  shoot  an  unarmed  man  would 
you,  Jim?" 

"Aint  you  got  no  gun?" 

"No,"  replied  Luke,  "I'm  unarmed.  See,"  and 
with  that  he  threw  up  the  tails  of  his  long  coat. 

Jim  hesitated  a  minute,  and  then  shoving  his 
gun  into  his  pocket  he  said, 

"No,  by  heavens,  I  won't  kill  an  unarmed  man. 


The  Death  of  Jim  Cartwright     83 

I'll  give  you  a  chance  for  your  life,  but  I  warn 
you  to  fix  yourself,  because  the  next  time  I  see  you 
I'm  going  to  let  daylight  through  your  carcass," 
and  with  another  oath  he  turned  to  walk  away. 
Hardly  had  he  taken  two  steps,  when  there  was 
a  blinding  flash  followed  by  a  loud  report,  and  Jim 
Cartwright  lay  dead,  shot  through  the  heart, 
while  Luke  Ravel  stood  over  him;  a  smoking  .38 
pocket  pistol  in  his  hand.  Where  he  pulled  his 
gun  from  no  one  ever  knew ;  it  was  all  over  in  a 
flash.  It  seems  a  cowardly  thing  to  shoot  a  man 
in  the  back,  but  it  was  a  case  of  'dog  eat  dog.' 

Luke  was  arrested  next  day,  and  Noel  and  I 
gave  our  testimony  before  the  coroner's  jury,  and 
he  was  bound  over  for  trial  before  the  next  term 
of  the  circuit  court  to  sit  six  months  hence. 
There  is  an  old  and  very  trite  saying  in  Texas 
that,  "a  dead  witness  is  better  than  a  live  one." 
This  was  gently  whispered  into  our  ears,  and 
accordingly  one  night  about  a  month  after  this, 
Noel  and  I  "folded  our  tents,  and  like  the  Arabs, 
silently  stole  away." 

Luke  was  acquitted  on  the  plea  of  self  defence. 

Spring  time  having  come,  and  with  it  the  good 
hot  weather,  I  continued  to  move  northwards  and 
finally  brought  up  in  a  good  office  in  Nebraska, 
where  I  was  to  copy  the  night  report  from  Chi- 


84  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

cago.  We  had  two  wires  running  to  Chicago, 
one  a  quad  for  the  regular  business,  and  the  other 
a  single  string  for  "C.  N.  D."  and  report  work. 
My  stay  in  this  office  was,  short,  sharp,  brilliant 
and  decisive. 

The  first  night  I  sat  down  to  work  at  six-thirty, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  was  receiving  the  worst 
pounding  I  had  ever  experienced,  from  some 
operator  in  "CH"  office  who  signed  "JL."  There 
was  no  kick  coming  on  the  sending,  it  was  as  plain 
as  a  large  sized  poster,  but  it  was  so  all-fired  fast, 
that  it  made  me  hustle  for  all  I  was  worth  to  get 
it  down.  There  is  no  sense  in  a  fellow  sending  so 
fast,  because  nothing  is  made  by  it  and  it  tires 
every  one  completely  out.  Ordinarily,  a  thirty 
word  a  minute  clip  is  a  good  stiff  speed  for  report, 
but  this  night,  thirty-five  or  forty  was  nearer  the 
mark.  In  every  operator  there  is  a  certain 
amount  of  professional  pride  inherent  that  makes 
him  refrain  from  breaking  on  report  unless  it  is 
absolutely  necessary.  The  sender  always  keeps  a 
record  of  the  breaks  of  each  receiver  on  the  line, 
and  if  they  become  too  frequent  the  offender  is 
gently  fired.  On  the  night  in  question  I  didn't 
break,  but  there  were  several  times  when  foreign 
dispatches  were  coming  that  I  faked  names  in 
great  shape.  It  was  an  ugly  night  out,  and  about 


The  Death  of  Jim  Cartwright      85 

nine  o'clock  our  quad  flew  the  track,  and  in  a  min- 
ute "JL"  said  to  me, 

"Here's  ten  blacks  (day  messages)  just  handed 
me  to  send  to  you,"  and  without  waiting  for  me 
to  get  my  manifold  clip  out  of  the  way  he  started. 
I  didn't  get  a  chance  to  put  the  time  or  date  down, 
and  was  swearing,  fighting  mad.  After  sending 
five  of  the  ten  messages,  "JL"  stopped  a  second 
and  said, 

"How  do  I  come?" 

"You  come  like  the  devil.  For  heaven's  sake 
let  up  a  bit,"  I  replied. 

"Who  do  you  think  you  are  talking  to?"  came 
back  at  me. 

Seemingly,  patience  had  ceased  to  be  a  virtue 

with  me,  so  I  replied,  "Some  d d  ambitious 

chump  of  a  fool  who's  stuck  on  making  a  record 
for  himself." 

"That  settles  you.  Call  your  chief  operator 
over  here/' 

Joe  Saunders  was  the  chief,  and  when  he  came 
over  he  said, 

"What's  the  trouble  here,  kid,  this  wire  gone 
down?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  "the  wire  hasn't  gone  down, 
but  that  cuss  up  in  'CH'  who  signs  'JL'  has  been 


86  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

pounding  the  eternal  life  out  of  me  and  I've  just 
given  him  a  piece  of  my  mind." 

"Say  anything  brash?"  asked  Joe. 

"No,  not  very.  Just  told  him  he  was  a  d — d 
fool  with  a  few  light  embellishments." 

Joe  laughed  very  heartily  and  said,  "I  guess 
you  are  the  fool  in  this  case,  because  'JL'  is  a 
woman,  Miss  Jennie  Love,  by  name,  and  the 
swiftest  lady  operator  in  the  business.  If  she 
makes  this  complaint  official,  you'll  get  it  in 
the  neck." 

I  didn't  wait  for  any  official  complaint,  but  put 
on  my  coat  and  walked  out  much  chagrined,  be- 
cause I  had  always  boasted  that  no  woman  could 
ever  run  me  off  a  wire.  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  Miss  Love  afterwards  and  apologized  for 
my  conduct.  She  forgave  me,  but  like  Mary 
Marsh,  she  married  another  man. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WITNESSING     A     MARRIAGE     BY     WIRE — BEATING 
A    POOL    ROOM — SPARRING    AT    LONG    RANGE 

AFTER  my  disastrous  encounter  with  Miss 
Love,  I  went  south  and  brought  up  in  St.  Louis, 
where  old  "Top,"  the  chief  operator,  gave  me  a 
place  working  a  New  York  quad.  This  was  about 
the  worst  "roast"  I  had  ever  struck,  and  it  was 
work  from  the  word  go  from  5  P.  M.  until  I  A.  M. 
Work  on  any  wire  from  a  big  city  leading  to  New 
York  is  always  hot,  and  this  particular  wire  was 
the  worst  of  the  bunch.  While  working  in  this 
office  I  had  several  little  incidents  come  under  my 
observation  that  may  be  of  interest. 

The  coy  little  god  of  love  manifests  itself  in 
many  ways,  and  the  successful  culmination  of  two 
hearts'  happiness  is  as  often  queer  as  it  is  hu- 
morous. 

Miss  Jane  Grey  was  an  operator  on  the  G.  C.  & 
F.  Railway  at  Wichita,  Kansas,  and  Mr.  Paul 
Dimmock  worked  for  the  Western  Union  in 
Louisville,  Kentucky.  Through  the  agency  of  a 
matrimonial  journal,  Jane  and  Paul  became  ac- 
87 


88  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

quainted;    letters  and  pictures  were  exchanged, 
and — it  was  the  old,  old  story — they  became  en- 
gaged.    They  wanted  to  be  wedded  and  the  more 
sensational  and  notorious  they  could  make  it  the 
better  it  would  suit  them  both.     Jane  only  earned 
forty  dollars  per  month,  while  Paul's    monthly 
stipend  was  the  magnificent  sum  of  sixty,  with 
whatever  extra  time  he  could  "scoop."     Neither 
one  of  them  wanted  to  quit  work  just  then,  they 
felt  they  could  not  afford  it,  but  that  marriage 
must  come  off,  or  they  would  both  die  of  broken 
hearts.     Paul    wrote, — Jane   WTOte, — plans   and 
compromises  were  made  and  refused;  the  situa- 
tion was  becoming  desperate,  and  finally  Jane's 
brilliant  mind   suggested  a  marriage  by  wire. 
Great  head — fine  scheme.     It  takes  a  woman  to 
circumvent    unforeseen    obstacles    every    time. 
Chief  operators  were  consulted  in  Kansas  City 
and  St.  Louis  and  they  agreed  to  have  the  wire 
cut  through  on  the  evening  appointed.     There 
were  to  be  two  witnesses  in  each  office,  and  I  was 
one  of  the  honored  two  in  St.  Louis.      The  day 
finally  arrived,  and  promptly  at  seven-thirty  in  the 
evening  Louisville  was  cut  through  to  Wichita, 
and  after  all  the  contracting  parties  and  the  wit- 
nesses had  assembled,  the  ceremony  began.  There 
was  a  minister  at  each  end,  and  as  the  various 


Beating  a  Pool  Room  89 

queries  and  responses  were  received  by  the  wit- 
nesses, they  would  read  them  to  the  contracting 
party  present,  and  finally  Paul  said, 

"With  this  ring,  I  thee  wed,  and  with  all  my 
worldly  goods  I  thee  endow :  in  the  name  of  the 
Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
Amen." 

The  ring  was  placed  on  the  bride's  finger,  by 
proxy,  the  benediction  pronounced  by  the  Wichita 
minister,  and  the  deed  was  done.  In  due  time  the 
certificate  was  received  and  signed  by  all  the  wit- 
nesses, and  the  matter  made  of  record  in  both 
places. 

How  long  did  they  live  apart  ?  Oh !  not  very 
long.  I  think  it  was  the  next  night  that  I  saw  a 
message  going  through  directed  to  Paul  saying, 
"Will  leave  for  Louisville  to-night,"  and  signed 
"Jane." 

I  wonder  if  old  S.  F.  B.  Morse  ever  had  any 
idea  when  he  was  perfecting  the  telegraph,  that  it 
would  some  day  be  used  to  assist  in  joining 
together, 

"Two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought, 
Two  hearts  that  beat  as  one." 

Operators  are  as  a  rule  as  honest  as  the  sun, 
yet,  "where  you  find  wheat,  there  also  you  find 
chaff,"  and  once  in  a  while  a  man  will  be  found 


90  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

whose  proper  place  is  the  penitentiary.  One  of 
the  easiest  ways  for  an  operator,  so  inclined  to 
make  money,  is  to  cut  wires,  steal  the  reports  of 
races,  market  quotations,  or  C.  N.  D.  reports,  and 
beat  them  to  their  destinations.  Wires  are 
watched  very  closely  so  that  it  is  hard  for  an  out- 
sider to  do  any  monkeying.  Many  men  under- 
stand telegraphy  who  do  not  work  at  the  business, 
and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  all  the  instruments  in 
the  bucket  shops  and  stock  exchanges  are  turned 
so  low  that  no  one  outside  of  the  operating  room 
can  hear  a  sound.  When  it  is  realized  that  tran- 
sactions are  made,  and  fortunes  won  or  lost  in  a 
fractional  part  of  a  minute,  it  will  be  seen  how 
very  careful  the  great  telegraph  companies  must 
be.  The  big  horse  races  every  year  offer  great 
temptations. 

While  I  was  working  in  St.  Louis,  a  case  came 
under  my  observation  that  will  readily  illustrate 
the  perversity  of  human  nature.  In  a  large  office 
not  so  very  far  away,  there  was  working  a  friend 
of  mine,  who  did  nothing  but  copy  race  reports 
and  C.  N.  D.'s  all  day.  On  the  day  the  great 
Kentucky  Derby  was  to  be  run,  the  wire  was  cut 
through  from  the  track  in  Louisville  to  a  big  pool 
room  in  this  city. 

Now  the  chief  operator  in  this  place  was  a  scaly 


Beating  a  Pool  Room  91 

sort  of  a  cuss — in  fact,  it  was  said  that  he  had 
done  time  in  the  past  for  some  skullduggery — and 
when  the  horses  went  to  the  post,  he  stood  by  the 
switchboard  and  deliberately  cut  the  pool  room 
wire,  so  the  report  didn't  go  through.  He  copied 
the  report  himself,  knew  what  horse  had  won, 
and  then  sent  a  message  to  a  henchman  of  his, 
who  was  an  operator  and  had  an  instrument  se- 
creted in  his  room  near  the  pool  room.  This  chap 
went  quickly  into  the  pool  room  and  made  wagers 
right  and  left.  A  rank  outsider,  a  twenty  to  one 
shot,  won  the  race,  and  after  the  confederate  had 
signified  that  he  was  ready,  the  chief  sent  the  re- 
port through  as  if  it  had  come  from  the  track. 
The  whole  transaction  didn't  take  over  two  min- 
utes and  the  "bookies"  were  hit  for  about  $30,000, 
which  Mr.  Chief  and  his  side  pardner  divided 
between  them. 

A  little  while  later  the  suspicions  of  the  book- 
makers became  aroused,  complaints  were  made, 
an  investigation  followed,  and  one  fine  day  when 
matters  were  becoming  pretty  warm,  the  recal- 
citrant chief  disappeared.  His  confederate  con- 
fessed to  the  whole  scheme  and  the  jig  was  up. 
The  chief  was  afterwards  apprehended  and  sent 
up  for  seven  years,  but  he  held  on  to  his  boodle. 

For  the  first  month  of  my  stay  in  St.  Louis,  my 


92  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

life  was  as  uneventful  as  a  May  day,  but  at  the 
end  of  that  time  a  man  came  on  the  New  York 
end  of  our  quad  that  was  enough  to  make  a  man 
drink.  The  men  working  together  on  a  wire  like 
this  should  always  be  harmonious,  because  the 
business  is  so  heavy  there  is  no  time  for  any  war 
of  words.  However,  operators  are  like  all  other 
men,  and  scraps  are  not  uncommon.  Generally 
they  take  place  at  long  range,  and  no  one  is  hurt 
thereby.  Some  men  have  an  unhappy  faculty  of 
incurring  the  hatred  of  every  person  over  a  wire, 
while  personally  they  may  be  princes  of  good  fel- 
lows. The  man  referred  to  above,  signed  "SY," 
and  he  had  about  as  much  judgment  as  a  two  year 
old  kid.  It  didn't  make  any  difference  to  him 
whether  the  weather  was  clear  or  muggy,  no  mat- 
ter whether  the  wire  was  weak  or  strong,  he'd 
pound  along  like  a  cyclone.  Remonstrance 
availed  nothing,  and  one  night  when  he  was  cut- 
ting up  some  of  his  monkeyshines,  I  became  very 
warm  under  the  collar  and  told  him  in  language 
more  expressive  than  elegant,  just  what  I  thought 
of  him,  threatening  to  have  our  wire  chief  have 
him  fired  off  the  wire.  He  answered : 

"Oh !  you  go  to  blazes,  you  big  ham.     You're 
too  fresh  anyway." 


Beating  a  Pool  Room  93 

The  epithet  "ham"  is  about  as  mean  a  one  as 
can  be  applied  to  an  operator,  and  I  came  back 
at  him  with : 

"Look  here,  you  infernal  idiot,  I'll  meet  you 
some  time  and  when  I  do  I'm  going  to  smash 
your  face.  Stop  your  monkeying  and  take  these 
messages." 

"Hold  your  horses,  sonny,  what's  the  difference 
between  you  and  a  jackass?"  he  said. 

"Just  nine  hundred  miles,"  I  replied. 

Further  words  were  useless  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes he  was  relieved,  but  just  about  the  time  he 
got  up  he  said : 

"Say,  'BY,'  don't  forget  you've  got  a  contract 
to  smash  my  face  some  of  these  days.  I'll  be  ex- 
pecting you.  Ta  Ta." 

That  was  the  last  of  him  on  that  wire  and  the 
incident  passed  from  my  mind.  I  pulled  up  and 
left  St.  Louis  shortly  after  that  and  went  to  work 
for  the  old  Baltimore  and  Ohio  Commercial  Com- 
pany, at  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  Canal 
streets,  in  New  York.  I  drew  a  prize  in  the  shape 
of  the  common  side  of  the  first  Boston  quad.  Sit- 
ting right  alongside  of  me  was  a  great,  big,  hand- 
some Irish  chap  named  Dick  Stanley.  He  was  as 
fine  a  fellow  as  ever  lived,  and  that  night  took  me 


94  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

over  to  his  house  on  Long  Island  to  board.  We 
were  sitting  in  his  room  about  nine-thirty,  having 
a  farewell  smoke  before  retiring  and  our  con- 
versation turned  to  "shop  talk."  We  talked  of 
the  old  timers  we  had  both  known,  told  reminis- 
cences, spun  yarns,  and  all  at  once  Dick  said : 

"Say,  Bates,  did  you  ever  work  in  'A'  office  in 
St.  Louis?" 

"Oh!  yes,"  I  replied,  "I  put  in  three  months 
there  under  'Old  Top.'  In  fact,  I  came  from 
there  to  New  York." 

"That  so?"  he  answered.  "I  used  to  work  on 
the  polar  side  of  the  No.  2  quad,  from  this  end, 
over  in  the  Western  Union  office  on  Broadway 
and  Dey  street.  What  did  you  sign  there?" 

"BY,"  I  answered.  I  thought  he  looked  queer, 
but  we  continued  our  talk,  and  finally  I  told  him 
of  my  wordy  war  with  a  man  in  New  York,  who 
signed  "SY,"  and  remarked  that  I  was  going  over 
to  195  Broadway,  and  size  him  up  some  day.  He 
knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  got  up  from  his 
chair,  and,  stretching  his  six  feet  two  of  anatomy 
to  its  full  length  said : 

"Well,  old  chap,  I'm  fagged.  I'm  going  to 
bed.  You'd  better  get  a  good  sleep  and  be  thor- 
oughly rested  in  the  morning,  because  you'll  need 
all  your  strength.  I'm  the  man  that  signed  'SY' 


Beating  a  Pool  Room  95 

in  the  New  York  office,  and  I'm  ready  to  take  that 
licking." 

Did  I  lick  him?  Not  much,  I  couldn't  have 
licked  one  side  of  him,  and  we  were  the  best  of 
chums  during  my  stay  in  the  city. 


CHAPTER  XII 

HOW     A     SMART     OPERATOR     WAS     SQUELCHED 

THE   GALVESTON    FLOOD 

A  LITTLE  while  after  this  "Stub"  Hanigan, 
another  operator,  invited  Dick  and  me  to  go  down 
to  a  chop  house  with  him  for  lunch,  and  we  ac- 
cepted. I  say  chop  house  when  in  reality  it  was 
one  of  those  numerous  little  hotels  that  abound  all 
over  New  York  where  one  can  get  a  good  meal 
for  very  little  money.  Hanigan  was  a  rattling 
good  operator,  but  he  was  very  young  and  had  a 
tendency  to  be  too  fresh  on  occasion. 

He  ordered  us  a  fine  lunch  and  while  we  were 
sitting  there  discussing  the  good  things,  a  big 
awkward  looking  chap  came  into  the  dining- 
room.  He  was  accompanied  by  a  sweet,  pretty 
looking  little  woman.  She  was  a  regular  beauty, 
and  it  needed  but  a  glance  to  see  that  they  were 
bride  and  groom,  and  from  the  country.  They 
had  all  the  ear  marks  so  apparent  in  every  bride 
and  groom.  They  hesitated  on  the  threshhold  a 
moment,  and  the  groom  said  very  audibly: 

"Dearest,  this  is  the  finest  dining-room  in  the 
96 


How  an  Operator  was  Squelched       97 

world,"  and  "Dearest"  beamed  on  her  liege  lord 
in  a  manner  that  was  very  trustful  and  sweet. 
Hanigan,  idiot  that  he  was,  laughed  outright. 
Dick  and  I  both  gave  him  a  savage  kick  under  the 
table,  but  it  didn't  have  any  effect. 

The  head  waiter  brought  the  couple  over  and 
sat  them  down  at  our  table,  and,  say — that  woman 
was  as  pretty  as  any  that  ever  came  down  the 
pike.  Towards  the  end  of  the  meal,  Hanigan 
took  his  knife  and  fork  and  began  to  tele- 
graph to  Stanley  and  me,  making  all  sorts  of  fun 
about  the  country  pair.  Now  that  is  a  pretty 
dangerous  business,  because  there  is  no  telling 
who  may  be  an  operator.  Dick  growled  at  him 
savagely  under  his  breath  and  told  him  to  shut 
up.  Nay!  Nay!  Mr.  Hanigan  wouldn't  shut 
up  worth  a  cent.  Finally  he  made  some 
scurrilous  remark,  and  then  another  knife  and 
fork  came  into  play.  Mr.  Bridegroom  was  doing 
the  talking  now,  and  this  is  what  he  said  to 
Hanigan : 

"I  happen  to  be  an  operator  myself,  and  have 
heard  and  understood  every  word  you  said.  As 
long  as  you  confined  yourself  to  innocent  remarks 
about  country  brides  and  grooms,  I  haven't 
minded  it  a  bit.  In  fact,  I  have  rather  enjoyed  it. 
But  now  you've  gone  too  far,  and  in  about  five 


98  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

seconds  I'm  going  to  have  the  pleasure  of  smash- 
ing your  face." 

Then,  before  we  had  time  to  do  a  thing,  biff; 
and  Hanigan  got  it  squarely  on  the  jaw.  We 
hustled  him  out  of  there  as  soon  as  we  could,  but 
Mr.  Bridegroom  had  all  his  Irish  up  and  followed 
him  out.  Eventually  we  succeeded  in  calming 
him  down;  "Stub"  made  a  most  abject  apology, 
and  I  don't  believe  he  ever  used  his  knife  and  fork 
for  any  such  a  purpose  again. 

The  gawky  chap  was  Mr.  Dave  Harrison,  one 
of  the  finest  operators  in  the  profession. 

Just  about  this  time  fall  weather  was  coming 
on,  and  there  was  a  suggestion  of  an  approaching 
winter  in  the  chill  morning  air,  and  receiving  a 
letter  from  my  old  friend  Clarke  in  Galveston, 
telling  me  there  was  a  good  job  waiting  for  me  if 
I  could  come  at  once,  I  pulled  up  stakes  in  New 
York,  and  sailed  away  on  the  Mallory  Line  ship 
"Comal,"  for  my  old  stamping  ground.  I  reached 
there  the  next  week  and  was  put  to  work  on  the 
New  York  Duplex,  which,  by  the  way,  was  the 
longest  string  in  the  United  States.  Mrs.  Swan- 
son  had  re-opened  her  boarding  house  on  Avenue 
M,  everything  looked  lovely  and  I  anticipated  a 
very  pleasant  winter.  Up  to  September  i8th, 
everything  was  as  quiet  and  calm  as  a  May  day. 


How  an  Operator  was  Squelched       99 

The  weather  had  been  beautiful,  the  surf  bathing 
and  concerts  in  front  of  the  Beach  Hotel  fine,  and 
nothing  \vas  left  to  wish  for. 

I  quit  working  on  Thursday,  September  i8th, 
at  five  P.  M.,  and  went  out  to  the  beach  and  had  a 
plunge.  The  sky  was  clear,  but  there  was  a  good 
stiff  breeze  blowing,  and  it  was  increasing  all  the 
time.  The  tide  was  flowing  in,  and  the  dashing 
of  the  waves  and  roar  of  the  surf  made  a  picture 
long  to  be  remembered.  After  my  swim  I  went 
home,  and  when  supper  was  finished  three  of  us 
again  went  out  to  the  beach.  The  wind  had  in- 
creased to  a  perfect  gale,  and  already  the  water 
was  over  the  car  tracks.  The  Pagoda  and  Surf 
bath  houses  were  surrounded,  while  numerous 
small  shacks  along  the  shore  had  been  washed 
away.  Inch  by  inch,  foot  by  foot,  the  water  ad- 
vanced until  it  began  to  look  serious,  but  no  one 
dreamed  of  the  flood  that  was  to  follow. 

We  went  home  at  eight-thirty,  and  at  ten  I 
dropped  into  the  realms  of  the  sand  man,  lulled 
to  sleep  by  the  roar  of  the  distant  surf,  and  the 
whistling  and  moaning  of  the  high  wind. 

Jimmie  Swanson  was  again  my  roommate  and 
about  five  o'clock  he  woke  me  up  and  said : 

"Mr.  Bates,  if  this  wind  keeps  up  the  whole  is- 


i  oo         Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

land  will  be  under  water  in  a  very  few  hours 
more." 

"Nonsense,  Jimmie,"  I  replied,  "there  is  no 
danger  of  that,"  and  I  turned  over  to  have  an- 
other snooze,  when  I  heard  a  peculiar  swash, 
swash,  swash,  against  the  side  of  the  house. 

"Jimmie,  what's  the  swash  we  hear?"  I  asked. 

He  got  out  of  bed,  limped  over  to  the  window, 
opened  the  blinds,  looked  a  minute  and  then 
yelled : 

"Good  Lord!  the  whole  town  is  under  water, 
and  we  are  floating." 

It  needed  but  a  glance  to  convince  me  that  he 
spoke  part  truth.  There  we  were  surrounded  on 
all  sides  by  water,  but  the  house  was  still  on  its 
foundation. 

"Water,  water,  everywhere 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink." 

On  account  of  the  sandy  nature  of  the  soil  on 
Galveston  Island,  most  of  the  houses  were  built 
up  on  piles,  and  the  water  was  gently  slopping  all 
over  the  first  floor  of  our  habitation.  The  streets 
were  flowing  waist  high,  and  filled  with  floating 
debris  of  all  kinds ; — beer  kegs,  boards,  doors,  and 
tables  ad  lib.  The  wind  soon  began  to  quiet 
down,  and  when  our  first  fright  was  over  we  had 
a  high  old  time  swimming  and  splashing  around 


•'  He  looked  at  me  . 


then  catching  me  by  the  collar  ,  . 
{page  40.) 


How  an  Operator  was  Squelched     101 

in  the  water.  It's  a  great  city  that  will  bring 
salt  water  bathing  right  up  to  the  doors  of  its 
houses. 

After  a  very  skimpy  breakfast,  four  of  us  made 
a  raft,  and  paddled  and  pushed  it  down  to  the 
office.  Nary  a  wire  was  there  in  working  order. 
You  see,  Galveston  is  on  a  very  flat  island  scarcely 
one  mile  wide,  and  the  only  approach  at  this  time 
was  a  low  railroad  bridge,  three  miles  long.  Our 
wires  were  strung  along  the  side  of  that,  and  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  every  wire  was  under 
water,  and  the  force  on  duty  either  swam  home  or 
slept  on  the  floor. 

That  day  was  about  the  easiest  I  ever  spent  in  a 
telegraph  office.  There  was  a  Mexican  cable  from 
Galveston  to  Vera  Cruz,  but  the  flood  had  washed 
away  their  terminals,  and  for  that  day,  Galves- 
ton was  entirely  isolated  from  the  world. 

Houston,  fifty-five  miles  north,  was  the  first  big 
town  adjacent,  and  as  all  our  wires  ran  through 
there,  it  was  apparent  they  were  having  a  hot  time 
doing  the  relaying  all  day.  They  had  only  a 
small  force,  and  evidently  the  business  was  de- 
layed. The  storm  had  finally  blown  itself  out, 
and  at  four  o'clock  Clarke  called  for  volunteers 
to  go  to  Houston  to  help  out  until  our  wires  came 
in  shape  again.  The  G.  H.  &  H.  railroad  people 


IO2          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

said  they  thought  the  water  was  low  enough  to 
permit  an  engine  to  cross  the  bridge,  and  in  re- 
sponse to  Clarke's  call  eight  of  us  volunteered  to 
attempt  the  trip.  After  reaching  the  mainland 
we  would  be  all  right,  but  there  was  that  con- 
founded three  mile  bridge  to  cross.  We  boarded 
engine  341,  with  Dad  Duffy  at  the  throttle,  and 
at  four-fifteen  he  pulled  out.  Water  was  still  over 
the  track  and  we  proceeded  at  a  snail-like  pace, 
Just  at  the  edge  of  the  bridge  we  stopped;  Dad 
looked  over  the  situation  and  said : 

"The  water  is  within  two  inches  of  the  fire-box 
now,  and  it's  doubtful  if  we  can  get  across,  but 
here  goes  and  God  save  us  all." 

The  sensation  when  we  first  struck  that  bridge 
and  realized  that  we  were  literally  on  a  water  sup- 
port, was  anything  but  pleasant,  and  I  reckon 
most  of  us  uttered  the  first  prayer  in  many  a  day. 
Slowly  we  crept  along,  and  just  as  we  were  in  the 
middle  of  the  structure  the  draw  sagged  a  little, 
and  ker splash!  out  went  the  fire.  A  great 
cloud  of  steam  arose  and  floated  away  on  the 
evening  air,  and  then,  there  stood  that  iron  mon- 
ster as  helpless  as  a  babe.  Dad  looked  around  at 
us  eight  birds  perched  up  on  the  tender  and  said : 

"Well  I  reckon  you  fellers  won't  pound  any 
brass  in  Houston  to-night." 


How  an  Operator  was  Squelched     103 

Pleasant  fix  to  be  in,  wasn't  it  ?  A  mile  and  a 
half  from  land,  perched  up  on  a  dead  engine,  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  water,  and  no  chance  to 
get  away.  There  was  no  absolute  danger,  be- 
cause the  underpinning  was  firm  enough,  but  all 
the  same,  every  man  jack  of  us  wished  he  hadn't 
come.  Night,  black  and  dreary,  settled  over  the 
waters,  and  still  no  help.  Finally,  at  eight  o'clock, 
the  water  had  receded  so  that  the  tops  of  the  rails 
could  be  seen,  and  two  of  us  volunteered  to  go 
back  on  foot  to  the  yard  office  for  help.  That  was 
just  three  miles  away,  but  nothing  venture,  noth- 
ing have,  so  we  dropped  off  the  hind  end  of  the 
tender  and  started  on  our  tramp  back  over  the  wa- 
ter-covered ties.  We  had  one  lantern,  and  after  we 
had  gone  about  a  half  of  a  mile,  my  companion 
who  was  ahead,  slipped  and  nearly  fell.  I  caught 
him  but  good-bye  to  the  lantern,  and  the  rest  of 
the  trip  was  made  in  utter  darkness.  To  be  brief, 
after  struggling  for  two  hours  and  a  half,  we 
reached  the  yard  office,  and  an  engine  was  sent 
out  to  help  us.  At  twelve  o'clock  the  whole 
gang  were  back  in  the  city,  wet,  weary  and  worn 
out. 

The  next  day  the  water  had  entirely  subsided 
and  work  was  resumed.  We  learned  then  of  the 
horror  of  the  flood.  Sabine  Pass  had  been  com- 


1 04          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

pletely  submerged,  and  some  hundred  and  fifty  or 
two  hundred  people  drowned.  Indianola  had 
been  wiped  out  of  existence,  and  the  whole  coast 
lined  with  the  wreckage  of  ships.  That  there  were 
no  casualties  in  Galveston,  was  providential,  and 
due,  doubtless,  to  the  fact  that  the  whole  country 
for  fifty  miles  back  of  it  is  as  flat  as  a  pan-cake, 
and  the  water  had  room  to  spread. 

I  worked  there  until  spring  and  then  a  longing 
for  my  first  love,  the  railroad,  came  over  me  and 
I  gave  up  my  place  and  bade  good-bye  to  the  com- 
mercial business  forever.  I  had  had  my  fling  at 
it  and  was  satisfied. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SENDING   MY   FIRST   ORDER 

I  HAD  now  been  knocking  about  the  country  for 
quite  a  few  years,  and  working  in  all  kinds  of 
offices  and  places,  and  had  acquired  a  great  deal  of 
experience  and  valuable  information,  so  I  reached 
the  conclusion  that  it  was  about  time  for  me  to 
settle  down  and  get  something  that  would  last  me 
for  a  while.  Commercial  work  I  did  not  care  for, 
nor  did  I  want  to  go  back  on  the  road  as  a  night 
operator  on  a  small  salary.  I  thought  I  had  the 
making  of  a  good  despatcher  in  me,  and  deter- 
mined to  try  for  that  place.  I  knew  it  had  to  be 
attained  by  starting  first  at  the  bottom,  so  I  went 
up  on  the  K.  M.  &  O.  and  secured  a  position  as 
night  operator  at  Vining.  The  K.  M.  &  O.  was  a 
main  trunk  line  running  out  of  Chaminade,  and 
was  the  best  road  for  business  that  I  had  as  yet 
struck.  Vining  was  midway  on  the  division,  and 
was  such  a  good  old  town  that  I  would  have  been 
content  to  have  stayed  there  for  some  time,  but 
one  day  an  engine  pulling  a  through  livestock  ex- 
105 


1 06          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

press  broke  a  driving  rod  while  running  like  light- 
ning, and  the  result  was  a  smash  up  of  the  first 
water — engine  in  the  ditch,  cars  piled  all  over  her, 
livestock  mashed  up,  engineer  killed,  fireman  badly 
hurt,  and  the  road  blocked  for  twenty-four  hours. 
The  wreck  occurred  on  a  curve  going  down  a 
rather  steep  grade,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to 
build  a  temporary  track  around  it.  A  wrecking 
train  was  sent  out  from  El  Monte,  and  as  I  hap- 
pened to  be  off  duty,  I  was  picked  up  and  taken 
along,  to  cut  in  the  wrecking  office.  The  division 
superintendent  came  out  to  hurry  up  things  and  he 
appeared  so  pleased  at  my  work  that,  in  a  few 
weeks,  he  offered  me  a  place  as  copy  operator  in 
the  despatcher's  office  at  El  Monte.  This  ap- 
peared to  be  a  great  chance  to  satisfy  my  ambition 
to  become  a  despatcher,  so  I  gladly  accepted,  and 
in  a  few  days  was  safely  ensconced  in  my  new 
position.  The  despatchers  only  work  eight  hours 
a  day,  while  the  copy  operators  work  twelve,  so 
they  work  with  two  despatchers  every  day.  I  had 
the  day  end  of  the  job  and  worked  from  eight 
A.  M.  until  eight  P.  M.,  with  an  hour  off  for  dinner, 
so  that  I  really  was  only  on  duty  for  eleven  hours. 
The  pay  was  good  for  me,  seventy  dollars  per 
month,  and  I  was  thoroughly  satisfied.  Really  all 
that  is  necessary  to  be  a  first  class  copy  operator 


Sending  My  First  Order         107 

is  to  be  an  expert  telegrapher.  It  is  simply  a  work 
of  sending  and  receiving  messages  all  day.  How- 
ever I  wanted  to  learn,  so  I  kept  my  ears  and  eyes 
opened,  and  studied  the  time  card,  train  sheet,  and 
order  book  very  assiduously. 

The  first  trick  despatcher  was  honest  old  Pat- 
rick J.  Borroughs,  a  man  of  twenty-five  years'  ex- 
perience in  the  business  and  as  good  a  man  as  ever 
sent  an  order  or  took  an  O.  S.  report.  He  was 
kindness  and  gentleness  personified,  and  assisted 
me  in  every  way  possible,  and  all  my  future  suc- 
cess was  due  to  his  help  and  teaching.  The  mem- 
ory of  the  time  I  worked  under  him  is  the  bright- 
est spot  in  all  the  years  I  served  in  the  business. 
After  I  had  been  there  for  about  five  months,  he 
would  allow  me,  under  his  supervision,  to  make 
simple  meeting  points  for  two  trains,  and  one  day 
he  allowed  me  to  give  a  right-of-track  order  to  a 
through  freight  train  over  a  delayed  passenger. 
Then  he  would  let  me  sit  around  in  his  chair, 
while  he  swallowed  his  lunch,  and  copy  the  O.  S. 
reports.  I  was  beginning  to  think  that  my  educa- 
tion as  a  despatcher  was  complete,  and  was  think- 
ing of  asking  for  the  next  vacancy,  when  a  little 
incident  occurred  that  entirely  disabused  my 
mind.  The  following  occurrence  will  show  how 
little  I  knew  about  the  business. 


io8          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

We  had  received  notice  one  morning  of  a  spe- 
cial train  to  be  run  over  our  division  that  after- 
noon, carrying  a  Congressional  Railroad  Com- 
mittee, and  of  course  that  meant  a  special  sched- 
ule, and  you  all  know  how  anxious  the  roads  are 
to  please  railroad  committees,  especially  when  they 
are  on  investigating  tours  (?)  with  reference  to 
the  extension  of  the  Inter-State  Commerce  Act, 
as  this  one  was.  We  were  told  to  "whoop  her 
through."  The  track  on  our  division  was  the  best 
on  the  whole  road,  and  it  was  only  102  miles  long; 
we  had  plenty  of  sidings  and  passing  tracks,  and 
besides  old  "Jimmie"  Hayes,  with  engine  444  was 
in,  so  they  could  be  assured  of  a  run  that  was  a 
hummer.  Mr.  Hebron,  the  division  superintend- 
ent, came  in  the  office  and  told  Borroughs  to  tear 
things  loose,  in  fact,  as  he  said,  "Make  'em  all  car 
sick." 

After  he  had  gone  out  Pat  tossed  the  notifica- 
tion over  to  me,  and  said,  "Bates,  here's  a  chance 
for  you  to  show  what  kind  of  stuff  you  are  made 
of.  Make  out  a  schedule  for  this  special,  giving 
her  a  clean  sweep  from  end  to  end,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  No.  21." 

Proud!  That  wasn't  the  proper  name  for  it. 
I  was  fully  determined  that  this  special  should 
have  a  run  for  her  money  if  she  ran  on  my  sched- 


Sending  My  First  Order         109 

ule.  No  Congressional  Committee  was  going 
back  to  Washington  with  the  idea  that  the  K.  M. 
&  O.  wasn't  the  swiftest  road  in  the  bunch,  if  I 
could  help  it,  and  I  had  a  big  idea  that  I  could. 
Pat  told  me  he  would  do  the  copying  while  I  made 
the  schedule,  but  as  he  said  it  I  fancied  I  saw  a 
merry  twinkle  in  his  honest  blue  eyes.  I  wasn't 
daunted  though,  and  started  to  work. 

"Order  No.  34. 

"To  C  &  E,  all  trains : 

"K.  M.  &  O.  RAILROAD  (Eastern  Division). 
"DESPATCHER'S  OFFICE,  'DS,'  October  15,  18 — 

"Special  east  engine  444,  will  run  from  El 
Monte  to  Marsan  having  right  of  track  over  all 
trains  except  No.  21,  on  the  following  schedule : — 

"Leave  El  Monte,  2 130  p.  M." 

Thus  far  I  proceeded  without  any  trouble,  and 
then  I  stuck.  Here  was  where  the  figuring  came 
in,  along  with  the  knowledge  of  the  road,  grades 
and  so  forth,  but  I  was  sadly  lacking  in  that  re- 
spect. I  studied  and  figured  and  used  up  lots  of 
gray  matter,  and  even  chewed  up  a  pencil  or  two. 
I  finally  finished  the  schedule  and  submitted  it  to 
Pat.  He  read  it  carefully,  knitted  his  brows  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  slowly: 

"For  a  beginner  that  schedule  is  about  the  best 
I  ever  saw.  It's  a  hummer  without  a  doubt.  But 


1 1  o          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

to  prevent  the  lives  of  the  Congressional  Commit- 
tee from  being  placed  in  jeopardy,  I  think  I  shall 
have  to  make  another."  Then  he  laughed  heart- 
ily and  continued, 

"All  joking  aside,  Bates,  my  boy,  you  did  pretty 
well,  but  you  have  only  allowed  seven  minutes 
between  Sumatra  and  Borneo,  while  the  time  card 
shows  the  distance  to  be  fourteen  miles.  Jim 
Hayes  and  engine  444  are  capable  of  great  bursts 
of  speed,  but,  by  Jingo,  they  can't  fly.  Then  again 
you  have  forgotten  our  through  passenger  train, 
No.  21,  which  is  an  hour  late  from  the  south  to- 
day ;  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  her  ?  Pass 
them  on  one  track,  I  suppose.  But  don't  be  dis- 
couraged, my  boy,  brace  up  and  try  it  again. 
That's  a  much  better  schedule  than  the  first  one  I 
ever  made." 

He  made  another  schedule  and  I  resumed  my 
copying.  It  wasn't  long,  however,  before  my  con- 
fidence returned  and  I  wanted  a  trick.  I  got  it, 
but  in  such  a  manner  that  even  now,  fifteen  years 
afterwards,  I  shudder  to  think  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

RUNNING    TRAINS     BY    TELEGRAPH HOW    IT    IS 

DONE 

THE  despatcher's  office  of  a  big  railroad  line  is 
one  of  the  most  interesting  places  a  man  can  get 
into,  especially  if  he  is  interested  in  the  workings 
of  our  great  railway  systems.  It  is  located  at  the 
division  headquarters,  or  any  other  point,  such  as 
will  make  the  despatching  of  trains  and  attendant 
orders  of  easy  accomplishment.  In  riding  over  a 
road,  many  people  are  prone  to  give  the  credit  of 
a  good  swift  run  to  the  engineer  and  train  crew. 
Pick  up  a  paper  any  day  that  the  President  or 
some  big  functionary  is  out  on  a  trip,  and  you  will 
probably  read  how,  at  the  end  of  the  run,  he 
stopped  beside  the  panting  engine,  and  reaching 
up  to  shake  the  hand  of  the  faithful,  grimy  en- 
gineer, would  say : 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  giving  us  such  a  good 
ruy  I  don't  know  when  I  have  ridden  so  fast 
before,"  or  words  to  that  effect.  He  never  thinks 
that  the  engineer  and  crew  are  but  the  mechanical 


1 1 2          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

agents,  they  are  but  small  cogs  in  a  huge  ma- 
chine. They  do  their  part  and  do  it  well,  but  the 
brains  of  the  machine  are  up  in  the  little  office  and 
are  all  incorporated  in  the  despatcher  on  duty. 
Flying  over  the  country  regardless  of  time  or 
space,  one  is  apt  to  forget  where  the  real  credit 
belongs.  The  swift  run  could  not  be  made,  and 
the  train  kept  running  without  a  stop,  if  it  were 
not  for  the  fact  that  the  despatcher  puts  trains  on 
the  sidetrack  so  that  the  special  need  not  be  de- 
layed, and  he  does  it  in  such  a  manner  that  the 
regular  business  of  the  road  shall  not  be  inter- 
fered with. 

The  interior  of  the  despatcher's  office  is  not,  as 
a  rule,  very  sumptuous.  There  is  the  big  counter 
at  one  side  of  the  room,  on  which  are  the  train 
registers,  car  record  books,  message  blanks,  and 
forms  for  the  various  reports.  Against  the  wall 
on  one  of  the  other  sides  is  a  big  black  board 
known  as  the  "call  board."  On  it  is  recorded  the 
probable  arrival  and  departure  of  trains,  and  the 
names  of  their  crews,  also  the  time  certain  crews 
are  to  be  called.  As  soon  as  the  train  men  have 
completed  the  work  of  turning  their  train  over  to 
the  yard  crew  at  the  end  of  their  run,  they  are  reg- 
istered in  the  despatcher's  office,  and  are  liable 
thereafter  for  duty  in  their  turn.  The  rule  "first 


Running  Trains  by  Telegraph     113 

in,  first  out,"  is  supposed  to  be  strictly  adhered  to 
in  the  running  of  trains.  About  the  middle  of  the 
room,  or  in  the  recess  of  the  bay  window,  is  the 
despatcher's  table.  On  it  in  front  of  the  man  on 
duty,  is  the  train  sheet,  containing  information, 
exact  and  absolute  in  its  nature,  of  each  train  on 
the  division.  On  this  sheet  there  is  also  a  space 
set  apart  for  the  expected  arrival  of  trains 
on  his  district  from  the  other  end,  and  one 
for  delays.  Loads,  empties,  everything,  is  there 
that  is  necessary  for  him  to  know  to  properly  run 
the  trains  on  time  and  with  safety.  At  any  min- 
ute the  despatcher  on  duty  can  tell  you  the  precise 
location  of  any  train,  what  she  is  doing,  how  her 
engine  is  working,  how  much  work  she  has  to  do 
along  the  road,  and  all  about  her  engineer  and 
conductor.  Generally,  there  are  two  sets  of  in- 
struments on  the  table,  one  for  use  of  what  is 
known  as  the  despatcher's  wire,  over  which  his 
sway  is  absolute,  and  the  other  for  a  wire  that  is 
used  for  messages,  reports,  and  the  like,  and  in  case 
of  emergency,  by  the  despatcher.  Mounted  on  a 
roll  in  front  of  him  is  the  current  official  time  card 
of  the  division.  From  the  information  contained 
thereon,  the  despatcher  makes  all  his  calculations 
for  time  orders,  meeting  points,  work  trains,  etc. 
Across  the  table  from  the  despatcher  sits  the  "copy 


1 1 4         Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

operator,"  whose  duty  it  is  to  copy  everything  that 
comes  along,  thus  relieving  the  despatcher  of  any- 
thing that  would  tend  to  disturb  him  in  his  work. 
The  copy  operator  is  generally  the  man  next  for 
promotion  to  a  despatcher's  trick,  and  his  relations 
with  his  chief  must  be  entirely  harmonious. 

The  working  force  in  a  well  regulated  despatch- 
er's office  consists  of  the  chief  despatcher,  three 
trick  despatchers,  and  two  copy  operators,  with 
the  various  call  boys  and  messengers.  The  chief 
despatcher  is  next  to  the  division  superintendent, 
and  has  full  charge  of  the  office.  He  has  the  su- 
pervision of  the  yard  and  train  reports,  and  the 
ordering  out  of  the  trains  and  crews.  He  has 
charge  of  all  the  operators  on  the  division,  their 
hiring  and  dismissal,  and  has  general  supervision 
of  the  telegraph  service.  In  fact,  he  is  a  little  tin 
god  on  wheels.  His  office  hours?  He  hasn't 
any.  Most  of  the  chiefs  are  m  their  offices  from 
early  morn  until  late  at  night,  and  there  is  no 
harder  worked  man  in  the  world  than  the  chief 
despatcher. 

Each  day  is  divided  into  three  periods  of  eight 
hours  each,  known  as  "tricks,"  and  a  despatcher 
assigned  to  each.  The  first  trick  is  from  eight 
A.  M.  until  four  p.  M.  ;  the  second  from  four  p.  M. 


Running  Trains  by  Telegraph     1 1 5 

until  twelve  midnight ;  and  the  third  from  twelve 
midnight  until  eight  A.  M. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  first  trick 
despatcher  comes  on  duty,  and  his  first  work  is  to 
verify  the  train  sheet  and  order  book.  The  man 
going  off  duty  checks  off  all  orders  issued  by  him 
that  have  been  carried  out,  and  his  successor  signs 
his  initials  to  all  orders  yet  to  be  obeyed.  This 
signifies  that  he  has  read  them  over  very  care- 
fully and  thoroughly  understands  their  purport. 
As  soon  as  he  has  receipted  for  them  he  be- 
comes as  responsible  as  if  he  had  first  issued  them. 
He  glances  carefully  over  his  train  sheet,  assures 
himself  that  everything  is  correct  and  then  as- 
sumes his  duties  for  the  day.  Anything  that  is 
not  clear  to  him  must  be  thoroughly  explained 
before  his  predecessor  leaves,  and  he  must  signify 
that  he  understands  everything.  The  value  of 
that  old  time  card  rule,  so  familiar  to  all  rail- 
roaders, "In  case  of  doubt  always  take  the  safe 
side,"  is  exemplified  many  times  every  day  in  the 
running  of  trains  by  telegraph,  and  the  attendant 
orders.  After  a  despatcher  has  assumed  charge 
of  the  trick  he  is  the  master  of  the  situation ;  he  is 
responsible  for  everything,  and  his  attentiveness, 
ability  and  judgment  are  the  powers  that  keep  the 
trains  moving  and  on  time. 


1 1 6          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

When  all  trains  are  running  on  time,  and  there 
are  no  extras  or  specials  out,  the  despatcher's  duty 
is  easy,  and  consists  largely  in  taking  and  record- 
ing "O.  S.  reports,"  and  "Consists."  The  "O.  S. 
report"  is  the  report  sent  in  by  the  various  opera- 
tors as  the  trains  arrive  and  depart  from  the  sev- 
eral stations.  A  "consist"  is  a  message  sent  by 
the  conductor  of  a  train  to  the  division  superin- 
tendent, giving  the  exact  composition  and  destina- 
tion of  every  car  in  his  train.  When  trains  are 
late,  however,  or  many  extras  are  running  or  the 
track  washed  out,  the  despatcher's  work  becomes 
very  arduous.  Orders  of  all  kinds  have  to  be 
made,  engines  and  crews  kept  working  together 
and  trains  moving. 

Down  the  centre  of  the  train  sheet,  which  varies 
in  size  according  to  the  length  of  the  division,  are 
printed  the  names  of  all  the  telegraph  stations  on 
the  division  and  the  distances  between  them.  On 
either  side  of  this  main  column  are  ruled  smaller 
columns,  each  one  of  which  represents  a  train. 
The  number  of  each  train  is  at  the  head  of  the  ap- 
propriate column,  and  under  it  are  the  number  of 
the  engine,  the  names  of  the  conductor  and  en- 
gineer, and  the  number  of  loads  and  empties  in  the 
train.  All  trains  on  the  division  are  arranged  in 
three  classes,  and  each  class  has  certain  rights. 


Running  Trains  by  Telegraph     117 

Trains  of  the  first  class  are  always  passengers ;  the 
through  freight,  and  the  combination  freight  and 
passenger  trains  compose  the  second  class.  All 
other  trains,  such  as  local  freights,  work  trains 
and  construction  trains  belong  to  the  third  class. 
It  is  an  invariable  rule  on  all  railroads  that  trains 
running  one  way  have  exclusive  rights  over  trains 
of  their  own  and  of  inferior  classes  running  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

What  is  called  the  "double  order  system,"  is 
used  almost  exclusively  on  all  single  track  roads, 
and  if  the  rules  and  regulations  governing  it  were 
strictly  adhered  to  and  carried  out,  accidents  for 
which  human  agency  is  responsible,  would  be 
impossible.  It  consists  simply  in  giving  an  order 
to  all  the  trains  concerned  at  the  same  time.  That 
is  to  say,  if  the  despatcher  desires  to  make  a  meet- 
ing point  for  two  trains,  he  will  send  the  same 
order  simultaneously  to  both  of  them.  If  a  train 
is  leaving  his  end  of  the  division  and  he  desires 
to  make  a  meeting  point  with  a  train  coming  in, 
before  giving  his  order  to  his  conductor  and  en- 
gineer, he  would  telegraph  it  to  a  station  at  which 
the  incoming  train  was  soon  to  arrive,  and  from 
whence  the  operator  would  repeat  it  back  word  for 
word,  and  would  give  a  signal  signifying  that  his 
red  board  was  turned.  By  this  means  both  trains 


1 1 8          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

would  receive  the  same  order,  and  there  would  be 
no  doubt  about  the  point  at  which  they  were  to 
meet. 

To  illustrate  this  method,  let  us  suppose  a  case 
of  two  sections  of  No.  13  running  east  and  one 
section  of  No.  14  running  west.  Both  trains  are 
of  the  second  class,  and  as  the  east  bound  trains 
have  the  right  of  way,  No.  14  must  keep  out  of 
the  way  of  the  two  13*5.  A  certain  point,  call  it 
Smithville,  is,  according  to  the  time  card,  the 
meeting  point  for  these  two  trains.  But  No.  14 
finds  out  she  has  a  lot  of  work  to  do  at  Jonesboro ; 
or  a  hot  driving  box  or  a  draw  head  pulling  out 
delays  her,  and  thus  she  cannot  possibly  reach 
Smithville  for  No.  13.  She  is  at  Jason,  and  un- 
less she  can  get  orders  to  run  farther  on  No.  13*3 
time,  she  will  have  to  tie  up  there  and  be  further 
delayed  an  hour.  The  conductor  tells  the  operator 
at  Jason  to  ask  "DS"  if  he  can  help  them  out  any. 
"DS"  glances  over  his  train  sheet,  and  finds  that 
he  cannot  let  them  run  to  Smithville,  because  No. 
13  is  nearly  on  time;  but  there  is  a  siding  at 
Burkes,  between  Jason  and  Smithville,  and  he  con- 
cludes to  let  14  go  there.  So  he  tells  the  operator 
at  Jason  to  "copy  3,"  and  then  he  calls  Smithville 
and  tells  him  to  "copy  5."  Both  the  engineer  and 
conductor  get  a  copy  of  all  orders  pertaining  to 


Running  Trains  by  Telegraph     1 1 9 

their  trains,  and  the  operators  retain  one  for  their 
records  and  for  reference  in  case  of  accident.  Both 
operators  turn  their  red  boards  the  first  thing,  and 
so  long  as  the  signal  remains  red,  no  train  can  pass 
the  station,  without  first  receiving  an  order  or  a 
clearance  card.  In  the  case  supposed  the  order 
would  be  as  follows : 

"DS     DESPATCHER'S  OFFICE,  12,  8  ,  '98 
"Orders  No.  31. 
To  C.  &  E.  ist  and  2nd  13,  SM. 
To  C.  &  E.  No.  14,  JN. 

First  and  second  sections  No.  13,  and  No.  14 
will  meet  at  Burkes. 

12.   (Answer  how  you  understand). 

"H.  G.  C." 

The  despatcher's  operator,  sitting  opposite  to 
him,  copies  every  word  of  this  order  as  the  de- 
spatcher  sends  it,  and  when  the  operators  at 
Smithville  and  Jason  repeat  it  back,  he  underlines 
each  word,  great  care  being  taken  to  correct  any 
mistakes  made  by  the  operators.  After  an  opera- 
tor has  repeated  an  order  back  he  signs  his  name, 
and  the  despatcher  then  says : 

''Order  No.  31,  O.  K.,"  giving  the  time  and 
signing  the  division  superintendent's  initials 
thereto.  The  order  is  next  handed  to  the  conduc- 
tor and  engineer  of  each  train  when  they  come  to 


1 20          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

the  office ;  both  read  it  carefully,  and  then  signify 
that  they  understand  it  fully  by  signing  their 
names.  The  operator  then  says  to  the  despatcher, 
"Order  31,  sig.  Jones  and  Smith,"  and  the  de- 
spatcher gives  the  "complete"  and  the  exact  time. 
Then  a  copy  is  given  to  the  conductor  and  one  to 
the  engineer  and  they  leave.  On  the  majority  of 
roads  the  conductor  must  read  the  order  aloud  to 
the  engineer  before  leaving  the  office. 

Thus  No.  14  having  received  her  orders,  pulls 
out,  and  when  she  reaches  Burkes,  she  goes  on  the 
side  track  and  waits  there  for  both  I3's,  because 
13,  being  an  east  bound  train  of  the  same  class, 
has  the  right-of-track  over  her.  The  same  modus 
operandi  is  gone  through  with  for  No.  13,  and 
when  the  trains  have  departed  the  operators  pull 
in  their  red  boards.  When  the  meeting  has  been 
made  and  both  trains  are  safely  by  Burkes,  the  de- 
spatcher draws  a  blue  pencil  or  makes  a  check 
mark  on  his  order  book  copy  and  signs  his  initials, 
which  signifies  that  the  provisions  of  the  order 
have  been  carried  out.  Should  its  details  not 
have  been  completed  when  the  despatcher  is  re- 
lieved, his  successor  signs  his  initials  thereto 
showing  that  he  has  received  it.  This  is  the 
method  of  sending  train  orders,  exact  and  simple, 
on  single  track  railroads.  On  double  track  lines 


Running  Trains  by  Telegraph     121 

the  work  is  greatly  simplified  because  trains  run- 
ning in  each  direction  have  separate  tracks.  Does 
it  not  seem  simple  ?  And  how  impossible  are  mis- 
takes when  its  rules  are  adhered  to.  It  really 
seems  as  if  any  one  gifted  with  a  reasonable 
amount  of  common  sense,  and  having  a  knowledge 
of  the  rudiments  of  mathematics,  could  do  the 
work,  but  underneath  all  the  simplicity  explained, 
there  runs  a  deep  current  of  complications  that 
only  long  time  and  a  cool  head  can  master.  I  have 
worked  in  offices  and  been  figuring  on  orders  for 
a  train  soon  to  start  out  from  my  end  of  the  divis- 
ion, when  all  of  a  sudden  some  train  out  on  the 
road  that  has  been  running  all  night,  will  bob  up 
with  a  hot  box,  or  a  broken  draw  head,  and  then 
all  the  calculations  for  the  new  train  will  be 
knocked  into  a  cocked  hat. 

The  simple  meeting  order  has  been  given 
above.  The  following  examples  will  illustrate 
some  of  the  other  many  forms  of  orders,  and  are 
self-explanatory. 

TIME  ORDER 

No.  14  has  a  right  to  use  ten  minutes  of  the 
time  of  No.  13  between  Jason  and  Jonesboro. 

SLOW  ORDER 
All  trains  will  run  carefully  over  track  from 


1 22          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

one-half  mile  east  of  Salt  Water  to  Big  River 
Bridge,  track  soft. 

EXTRA  ORDER 

Engine  341  will  run  extra  from  DeLeon  to 
Valdosta. 

ANNULMENT  ORDER 

No.  15  of  January  6th  is  annulled  between  San- 
tiago and  Rio. 

WORK  ORDER 

Engine  228  will  work  between  Posey  and  Pat- 
terson, keeping  out  of  the  way  of  all  regular 
trains.  Clear  track  for  extra  west,  engine  327  at 
10:30  A.  M. 

When  an  operator  has  once  turned  his  red  board 
to  the  track  for  an  order,  under  no  circumstances 
must  he  pull  it  in  until  he  has  delivered  the  order 
for  the  train  for  which  it  is  intended.  In  the 
meantime  should  another  train  come  in  for  which 
he  has  no  orders,  he  will  give  it  a  clearance  card  as 
follows : 

To  C.  &  E.,  No.  27 

There  are  no  orders  for  you,  signal  is  set  for 
No.  1 8.  H.  G.  CLARKE,  Operator. 

At  stated  times  during  the  day,  the  despatchers 
on  duty  on  each  division  end  full  reports  of  all 


Running  Trains  by  Telegraph     123 

their  trains  to  the  divisions  adjoining  them  on 
either  side.  This  train  report  is  very  complete, 
giving  the  composition  of  each  and  every  train  on 
the  road,  and  the  destination  of  every  car.  A 
form  of  the  message  will  readily  illustrate  this : 

SAN  ANGELO,  5  |  16,  18 — . 
W.  H.  C. 

DS 
No  17  will  arrive  at  DS,  at  10:20  A.  M.,  with  the 

following : 

1  HH  goods Chgo. 

2  Livestock Kansas  City. 

3  Mdse 

i  Emgt.  outfit St.  Louis. 

6  Coal Houston. 

6  Wheat Chgo. 

7  Empty  sys.  flats Flat  Rock. 

Total  26  H.  G.  B. 

All  work  is  done  over  the  initials  of  the  division 
superintendent  and  in  his  name.  These  reports 
keep  the  despatchers  fully  informed  as  to  what 
may  be  expected,  and  arrangements  can  be  made 
to  keep  the  trains  moving  without  delay.  Of 
course  the  report  illustrated  above  is  for  but  one 
train,  necessarily  it  must  be  much  longer  when 
many  trains  are  running. 


i  24         Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

At  some  regular  time  during  the  day  all  the 
agents  on  the  division  send  in  a  car  report.  This 
is  copied  by  the  despatcher's  operator  and  shows 
how  many  and  what  kind  of  cars  are  on  the  side 
tracks ;  the  number  of  loads  ready  to  go  out ;  the 
number  and  kind  of  cars  wanted  during  the  ensu- 
ing twenty-four  hours;  and  if  the  station  is  a 
water  station,  how  many  feet  of  water  are  in  the 
tank;  or  if  a  coaling  station,  how  many  cars  of 
coal  there  are  on  hand;  and  lastly,  what  is  the 
character  of  the  weather.  On  some  roads 
weather  reports  are  sent  in  every  hour. 

In  view  of  all  this,  I  think  it  is  not  too  much 
to  say,  that  the  eyes  of  the  despatcher  see  every- 
thing on  the  road.  There  are  a  thousand  and  one 
small  details,  in  addition  to  the  momentous  mat- 
ters of  which  he  has  charge,  and  the  man  who  can 
keep  his  division  clear,  with  all  trains  moving 
smoothly  and  on  time,  must  indeed  possess  both 
excellent  method  and  application,  and  must  have 
the  ability  and  nerve  to  master  numerous  unex- 
pected situations  the  moment  they  arise.  He  is 
not  an  artisan  or  a  mechanic,  he  is  a  genius. 


CHAPTER  XV 
AX  OLD  DESPATCHER'S  MISTAKE — MY  FIRST  TRICK 

I  HAD  become  thoroughly  proficient  and  more 
frequently  than  ever  Borroughs  would  let  me 
''spell"  for  him  for  a  while  each  day.  Be  it  said 
to  his  credit,  however,  he  was  always  within  hear- 
ing, when  I  was  doing  any  of  his  work.  He  was 
carefulness  personified,  and  the  following  incident 
only  serves  to  show  what  unaccountable  errors 
will  be  made  by  even  the  best  of  men. 

One  cold  morning  in  January,  I  started  to  the 
office  as  usual.  The  air  was  so  still,  crisp  and  bit- 
ing that  the  air-pumps  of  the  engines  had  that  pe- 
culiar sharp,  snappy  sound  heard  only  in  a  panting 
engine  in  cold  weather.  They  seemed  almost  im- 
bued with  life.  As  I  went  into  the  office  at  eight 
o'clock  to  go  to  work,  the  night  man  remarked 
that  I  must  be  feeling  pretty  brash;  my  spirits 
seemed  so  high.  And  in  fact,  that  was  no  joke; 
I  was  feeling  fine  as  silk  and  showed  it  all  over. 
But  as  I  said  good  morning  to  Borroughs,  I  no- 
ticed that  he  seemed  rather  glum,  and  I  asked: 

I25 


1 26          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

"What's   the   matter,    Dad?     Feeling   bad   this 
morning  ?" 

He  snapped  back  in  a  manner  entirely  foreign 
to  him,  "No,  but  I  don't  feel  much  like  chaffing 
this  day.  I  feel  as  if  something  was  going  to  hap- 
pen, and  I  don't  like  the  feeling." 

I  answered,  "Oh!  bosh,  Dad.  You'll  feel  all 
right  in  a  few  minutes;  I  reckon  you've  got  a 
good  old  attack  of  dyspepsia;  brace  up." 

Just  then  the  wires  started  up,  and  he  gruffly 
told  me  to  sit  down  and  go  to  work  and  our  con- 
versation ceased.  That  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  used  anything  but  a  gentle  tone  to  me,  and  I 
felt  hurt.  The  first  trick  is  always  the  busiest, 
and  under  the  stress  of  work  the  incident  soon 
passed  from  my  mind.  Pat  remarked  once,  that 
the  general  superintendent  was  going  to  leave 
Chaminade  in  a  special  at  10:30  A.  M.,  on  a  tour 
of  inspection  over  the  road.  That  was  about  all 
the  talking  he  did  that  morning.  His  work  was 
as  good  as  ever,  and  in  fact,  he  made  some  of  the 
prettiest  meets  that  morning  I  had  ever  seen. 

About  10:35,  1-  asked  Borroughs  to  allow 
me  to  go  over  to  the  hotel  to  get  a  cigar.  I 
would  be  gone  only  a  few  minutes.  He  assented, 
and  I  slipped  on  my  overcoat  and  went  out.  I 
wasn't  gone  over  ten  minutes,  and  as  I  stepped 


An  Old  Despatcher's  Mistake      127 

into  the  doorway  to  come  upstairs  on  my  return,  I 
heard  what  sounded  like  a  shot  in  the  office.  I 
flew  upstairs  two  steps  at  a  time,  and  never  to  my 
dying  day  will  I  forget  the  sight  that  met  my 
gaze.  Borroughs,  whom  I  had  left  but  a  few  mo- 
ments before  full  of  life  and  energy,  was  half 
lying  on  the  table,  face  downwards,  dead  by  his 
own  hand.  The  blood  was  oozing  from  a  jagged 
wound  in  his  temple,  and  on  the  floor  was  the 
smoking  pistol  he  had  used.  Fred  Bennett,  the 
chief  despatcher,  as  pale  as  a  ghost,  was  bending 
over  him,  while  the  two  call  boys  were  standing 
near  paralyzed  with  fright.  It  was  an  intensely 
dramatic  setting  for  a  powerful  stage  picture,  and 
my  heart  stood  still  for  a  minute  as  I  contem- 
plated the  awful  scene.  Mr.  Hebron,  the  division 
superintendent,  came  in  from  the  outer  office,  and 
was  transfixed  with  horror  and  amazement  when 
he  saw  the  terrible  picture. 

Bennett  turned  to  me  and  said,  "Bates,  come 
here  and  help  me  lift  poor  Borroughs  out  of  this 
chair." 

Gently  and  carefully  we  laid  him  down  on  the 
floor  and  sent  one  of  the  badly  frightened  boys 
for  a  surgeon.  Medical  skill  was  powerless,  how- 
ever, and  the  spirit  of  honest  Pat  Borroughs  had 
crossed  the  dark  river  to  its  final  reckoning. 


1 28          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

Work  in  the  office  was  at  a  standstill  on  account 
of  the  tragic  occurrence,  but  all  of  a  sudden  I 
heard  Monte  Carlo  calling  "DS"  and  using  the 
signal  "WK,"  which  means  ''wreck."  Bennett 
told  me  to  sit  down  and  take  the  trick  until  the 
second  trick  man  could  be  called.  I  went  over 
and  sat  down  in  the  chair,  still  warm  from  the 
body  of  my  late  friend,  and  wiping  his  blood  off 
the  train  sheet  with  my  handkerchief,  I  an- 
swered. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  state  of 
my  feelings  as  I  first  touched  the  key ;  I  had  com- 
pletely lost  track  of  trains,  orders  and  everything 
else.  However,  I  gradually  pulled  myself  to- 
gether, and  got  the  hang  of  the  road  again,  and 
then  I  learned  how  the  wreck  had  occurred. 
About  a  minute  after  I  went  out,  Borroughs  had 
given  a  right-of-track  order  to  an  express  freight 
from  Monte  Carlo  to  Johnsonville,  and  had  told 
them  to  hurry  up.  Johnsonville  is  on  the  out- 
skirts of  Chaminade,  and  Borroughs  had  com- 
pletely forgotten  that  the  general  superintendent's 
special  had  left  there  just  five  minutes  before  with 
a  clean  sweep  order.  That  he  had  known  of  it  was 
evident  from  the  fact  that  it  was  recorded  on  the 
train  sheet.  Two  minutes  after  the  freight  had 
left  Monte  Carlo,  poor  Pat  realized  he  had  at  last 


"...   Half  lying  on  the  table,  face  downward,  dead  by  his 
own  hand."  {page  127.) 


An  Old  Despatcher's  Mistake      129 

made  his  mistake.  He  said  not  a  word  to  any 
person,  but  quietly  ordered  out  the  wrecking  out- 
fit, and  then  reaching  in  the  drawer  he  took  out  a 
revolver  and — snuffed  out  his  candle.  He  fell 
forward  on  the  train  sheet,  as  if  to  cover  up  with 
his  lifeless  body,  the  terrible  blunder  he  had  just 
made.  Many  other  despatchers  had  made  seri- 
ous errors,  and  in  a  measure  outlived  them ;  but 
here  was  a  man  who  had  grown  gray  in  the  serv- 
ice of  railroads,  with  never  a  bad  mark  against 
him.  Day  and  night,  in  season  and  out,  he  had 
given  the  best  of  his  brain  and  life  to  the  service, 
and  finally  by  one  slip  of  the  memory  he  had,  as 
he  thought,  ruined  himself ;  and,  too  proud  to  bear 
the  disgrace,  he  killed  himself.  He  was  abso- 
lutely alone  in  the  world  and  left  none  to  mourn 
his  loss  save  a  large  number  of  operators  he  had 
helped  over  the  rough  places  of  the  profession. 

The  wreck  was  an  awful  one.  The  superin- 
tendent's son  was  riding  on  the  engine,  and  he  and 
the  engineer  and  the  fireman  were  mashed  and 
crushed  almost  beyond  recognition.  The  super- 
intendent, his  wife  and  daughter,  and  a  friend, 
were  badly  bruised,  but  none  of  them  seriously 
injured.  The  second  trick  man  was  not  to  be 
found  immediately,  so  I  worked  until  four  o'clock, 
and  the  impression  of  that  awful  day  will  never 


130          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

leave  me.  Pat's  personality  was  constantly  be- 
fore me  in  the  shape  of  the  blood  stain  on  the 
train  sheet.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I  recovered 
my  equanimity. 

The  next  afternoon  we  buried  poor  Pat  under 
the  snow,  and  the  earth  closed  over  him  forever; 
and  thus  passed  from  life  a  man  whose  character 
was  the  purest,  whose  nature  was  the  gentlest: 
honest  and  upright,  I  have  never  seen  his  equal  in 
the  profession  or  out.  I  often  think  if  I  had  not 
gone  over  to  the  hotel  that  morning,  the  accident 
might  have  been  averted,  because,  perhaps,  I 
would  have  noticed  the  mistake  in  time  to  have 
prevented  the  collision.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  probable  I  would  not  have  noticed  it,  because 
operators,  not  having  the  responsibility  of  the 
despatchers,  rarely  concentrate  their  minds  in- 
tensely on  what  they  are  taking.  A  man  will  sit 
and  copy  by  the  hour  with  the  greatest  accuracy, 
and  at  the  same  time  be  utterly  oblivious  of  the 
purport  of  what  he  has  been  taking.  There  can 
be  no  explanation  as  to  why  Pat  forgot  the  special. 
It  is  one  of  those  things  that  happen ;  that's  all. 

The  rule  of  seniority  was  followed  in  the  office, 
and  in  the  natural  sequence  of  events  the  night 
man  got  my  job,  I  was  promoted  to  the  third  trick 


An  Old  Despatched  Mistake      1 3 1 

— from  twelve  midnight  until  eight  A.  M. — and  a 
new  copy  operator  was  brought  in  from  Vining. 

If  any  trick  is  easier  than  another  it  is  the  third, 
but  none  of  them  are  by  any  means  sinecures, 
When  I  was  a  copy  operator  I  used  to  imagine  it 
was  an  easy  thing  to  sit  over  on  the  other  side  of 
the  table  and  give  orders,  "jack  up"  operators, 
conductors  and  engineers,  and  incidentally  haul 
some  men  over  the  coals  every  time  I  had  to  call 
them  a  few  minutes ;  but  when  I  reached  the  sum- 
mit of  an  operator's  ambition,  and  was  assigned  to 
a  trick  I  found  things  very  different.  Copying 
with  no  responsibility  was  dead  easy;  but  des- 
patching trains  I  found  about  the  stiffest  job  I  had 
ever  undertaken.  I  had  to  be  on  the  alert  with 
every  faculty  and  every  minute  during  the  eight 
hours  I  was  on  duty.  While  the  first  and  second 
trick  men,  have  perhaps  more  train  order  work 
attached  to  them,  the  third  is  about  on  a  par  with 
them  as  far  as  actual  labor  is  concerned,  because, 
in  addition  to  the  regular  train  order  work,  a  new 
train  sheet  has  to  be  opened  every  night  at  twelve 
o'clock,  which  necessitates  keeping  two  sheets 
until  all  the  trains  on  the  old  one  have  completed 
their  runs.  There  is  also  a  consolidated  train 
report  to  be  made  at  this  time,  which  is  a  re-cap- 
itulation of  the  movements  of  all  trains  for  the 


1 3  2          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

preceding  twenty-four  hours,  giving  delays,  causes 
thereof,  accidents,  cars  hauled,  etc.  This  is  sub- 
mitted to  the  division  superintendent  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  after  he  has  perused  and  digested  its  con- 
tents he  sends  a  condensed  copy  to  the  general 
superintendent.  Many  a  man  loses  his  job  by  a 
report  against  him  on  that  train  sheet. 

To  show  the  strain  on  a  man's  mind  when  he  is 
despatching  trains,  let  me  tell  a  little  incident  that 
happened  to  me  just  in  the  beginning  of  my  career 
as  a  despatcher.  Every  morning  about  five 
o'clock,  the  third  trick  man  begins  to  figure  on  his 
work  train  orders  for  the  day  and  when  he  has 
completed  them  he  sends  them  out  to  the  different 
crews.  Work  train  orders,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to 
explain,  are  orders  given  to  the  different  con- 
struction crews,  such  as  the  bridge  gang,  the 
grading  gang,  the  track  gang,  etc.,  to  work  be- 
tween certain  points  at  certain  times.  They  must 
be  very  full  and  explicit  in  detail  as  to  all  trains 
that  are  to  run  during  the  continuance  of  the 
order.  For  regular  trains  running  on  time,  no 
notification  need  be  given,  because  the  time  card 
rules  would  apply;  but  for  all  extras,  specials,  and 
delayed  trains,  warnings  must  be  given,  so  that  the 
work  trains  can  get  out  of  the  way  for  them,  other- 
wise the  results  might  be  very  serious,  and  busi- 


An  Old  Despatcher's  Mistake      133 

ness  be  greatly  delayed.  Work  orders  are  the  bane 
of  a  new  despatcher's  existence,  and  the  manner  in 
which  he  handles  them  is  a  sure  indication  as  to 
whether  he  will  be  successful  or  not.  Many  a  man 
gets  to  a  trick  only  to  fall  down  on  these  work 
orders. 

I  stumbled  along  fairly  well  the  first  night  as  a 
despatcher,  and  had  no  mishaps  to  speak  of,  al- 
though I  delayed  a  through  passenger  some  ten 
minutes,  by  hanging  it  up  on  a  siding  for  a 
fast  freight  train,  and  I  put  a  through  freight  on 
a  siding  for  a  train  of  an  inferior  class.  For 
these  little  errors  of  judgment  I  was  "cussed 
out"  by  all  the  conductors  and  engineers  on  the 
division  when  they  came  in;  and  the  division 
superintendent,  on  looking  over  the  train  sheet 
the  next  morning,  remarked,  that  delaying  a 
passenger  train  would  never  do — in  such  a  tone 
of  voice  that  I  could  plainly  see  my  finish  should 
I  ever  so  offend  again. 

The  second  night  passed  all  right  enough,  and 
by  5  .-30  A.  M.,  I  had  completed  my  work  orders 
and  sent  them  out.  From  that  time  on  until  eight 
o'clock  when  the  first  trick  man  relieved  me  I 
was  kept  busy.  He  read  over  my  outstanding 
orders,  verified  the  sheet,  and  signed  the  transfer 
on  the  order  book,  and  after  a  few  moments'  chat  I 


1 34         Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

went  home.  I  went  to  bed  about  nine  o'clock,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  dropping  off  to  sleep,  when  all 
at  once  I  remembered  that  an  extra  fast  freight 
was  due  to  leave  at  9 145  A.  M.,  and  that  there  was 
a  train  working  in  a  cut  four  miles  out.  I 
wondered  if  I  had  notified  her  to  get  out  of  the 
way  of  the  extra.  That  extra  would  go  down 
through  that  cut  like  a  streak  of  greased  lightning, 
because  Horace  Daniels,  on  engine  341,  was 
going  to  pull  her,  and  Horace  was  known  as  a 
runner  from  away  back.  I  reviewed  in  my  mind, 
as  carefully  as  I  could  all  the  orders  I  had  given  to 
the  work  train,  and  was  rather  sure  I  had  notified 
them,  but  still  I  was  not  absolutely  certain,  and 
began  to  feel  very  uncomfortable.  Poor  Bor- 
roughs  had  just  had  his  smash  up,  and  I  didn't 
want  "poor  Bates,"  to  have  his  right  away. 
Maybe  it  was  the  spirit  of  this  same  old  man 
Borroughs,  who  was  sleeping  so  peacefully  under 
the  ground  that  made  me  feel  and  act  carefully.  I 
looked  at  my  watch  and  found  it  was  9 :2O.  The 
extra  would  leave  in  twenty-five  minutes  and  I 
lived  nearly  a  mile  from  the  office.  The  strain 
was  beginning  to  be  too  much,  so  I  slipped  on  my 
clothes  and  without  putting  on  a  collar  or  a  cravat, 
I  caught  up  my  hat  and  ran  with  all  my  might  for 
the  depot.  As  I  approached  I  saw  Daniels  giving 


An  Old  Despatcher's  Mistake      135 

341  the  last  touch  of  oil  before  he  pulled  out. 
Thank  God,  they  hadn't  gone.  I  shouted  to  him, 
"Don't  pull  out  for  a  minute,  Daniels;  I  think 
there  is  a  mistake  in  your  orders." 

Daniels  was  a  gruff  sort  of  a  fellow,  and  he 
snapped  back  at  me,  " What's  the  matter  with  you? 
I  hain't  got  no  orders  yet.  Come  here  until  I  oil 
those  wheels  in  your  head." 

I  went  up  in  the  office  and  Daniels  followed  me. 
Bennett,  the  chief,  was  standing  by  the  counter 
as  1  went  in,  and  after  a  glance  at  me  he  said, 
"What's  up,  kid?  Seen  a  ghost?  You  look  al- 
most pale  enough  to  be  one  yourself." 

I  said,  "No,  I  haven't  seen  any  ghosts,  but  I  am 
afraid  I  forgot  to  notify  that  gang  working  just 
east  of  here  about  this  extra." 

The  conductor  and  engineer  were  both  there  and 
they  smiled  very  audibly  at  my  discomfiture;  in 
fact,  it  was  so  audible  you  could  hear  it  for  a 
block.  Bennett  went  over  to  the  table,  glanced  at 
the  order  book  and  train  sheet  for  a  minute  and 
then  said,  "Oh,  bosh !  of  course  you  notified  them. 
Here  it  is  as  big  as  life,  'Look  out  for  extra  east, 
engine  341,  leaving  El  Monte  at  9 145  A.  M/  What 
do  you  want  to  get  such  a  case  of  the  rattles  and 
scare  us  all  that  way  for?" 

I  was  about  to  depart  for  home  to  resume  my 


1 36          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

sleep,  and  was  congratulating  myself  on  my  es- 
cape, when  Bennett  called  me  over  to  one  side  of 
the  room,  and  in  a  low,  but  very  firm  voice,  meta- 
phorically ran  up  and  down  my  spinal  column 
with  a  rake.  He  asked  me  if  I  didn't  know  there 
were  other  despatchers  in  that  office  besides  my- 
self; men  who  knew  more  in  a  minute  about  the 
business  than  I  did  in  a  month ;  and  didn't  I  sup- 
pose that  the  order  book  would  be  verified,  and 
the  train  sheet  consulted  before  sending  out  the 
extra  ?  He  hoped  I  would  never  show  such  a  case 
of  the  rattles  again.  That  was  all.  Good  morn- 
ing. All  the  same  I  was  glad  I  went  back  to  the 
office  that  morning,  because  I  had  satisfied  myself 
that  I  had  not  committed  an  unpardonable  error 
at  the  outset  of  my  career. 

In  case  of  doubt  always  take  the  safe  side. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A    GENERAL    STRIKE — A    LOCOMOTIVE    ENGINEER 
FOR    A    DAY 

DURING  the  ensuing  spring,  one  of  those  spas- 
modic waves  of  strikes  passed  over  the  country. 
Some  northern  road  that  wasn't  earning  enough 
money  to  pay  the  interest  on  its  bonds,  cut  down 
the  salaries  of  some  of  its  employees,  and  they 
went  out.  Then  the  "sympathy"  idea  was  worked 
to  the  full  limit,  and  gradually  other  roads  were 
tied  up.  We  had  hopes  it  would  escape  us,  but 
one  fine  day  we  awoke  to  find  our  road  tied  up 
good  and  hard.  The  conductors  and  brakemen 
went  first,  and  a  few  days  later  they  were  followed 
by  the  engineers  and  firemen.  That  completed 
the  business  and  we  were  up  against  it  tighter  than 
a  brick.  Our  men  hadn't  the  shadow  of  a  griev- 
ance against  the  company,  and  were  not  in  full 
sympathy  with  the  strike,  but  their  obligation  to 
their  unions  was  too  strong  for  them  to  resist. 

It  placed  us  in  a  pretty  bad  fix  because  just  at 
this  time  we  had  a  yard  full  of  freight,  a  good  deal 


138          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

of  it  perishable,  and  it  was  imperative  that  it 
should  be  moved  at  once  or  the  company  would  be 
out  a  good  many  dollars.  The  roundhouse  men 
and  a  few  hostlers  were  still  working,  so  it  was  an 
easy  thing  to  get  a  yard  engine  out.  Bennett,  my- 
self, Burns,  the  second  trick  man,  and  Mr.  Heb- 
ron, the  division  superintendent,  went  down  in 
the  yard  to  do  the  switching.  There  were  twenty- 
three  cars  of  Texas  livestock  and  California  fruit 
waiting  for  a  train  out,  and  the  drovers  were  be- 
coming impatient,  because  they  wanted  to  get  up 
to  Chicago  to  take  advantage  of  a  big  bulge  in  the 
market. 

I  soon  found  that  standing  up  in  the  bay  win- 
dow of  an  office,  watching  the  switchmen  do  the 
yard  work  and  doing  it  yourself,  were  two  entirely 
different  propositions.  When  I  first  went  in  be- 
tween two  cars  to  make  a  coupling,  I  thought  my 
time  had  come  for  sure.  I  fixed  the  link  and  pin 
in  one  car,  and  then  ran  down  to  the  next  and 
fixed  the  pin  there.  The  engine  was  backing 
slowly,  but  when  I  turned  around,  it  looked  as  if 
it  had  the  speed  of  an  overland  "flyer."  I  watched 
carefully,  raised  and  guided  the  link  in  the  oppo- 
site draw  head,  and  then  dropped  the  pin.  Those 
two  cars  came  together  like  the  crack  of  doom,  and 
I  shut  my  eyes  and  jumped  back,  imagining  that  I 


A  General  Strike  1 39 

had  been  crushed  to  death,  in  fact,  I  could  feel  that 
my  right  hand  was  mashed  to  a  pulp.  But  it  was 
a  false  alarm;  it  wasn't.  I  had  made  the  coup- 
ling without  a  scratch  to  myself,  and  it  wasn't 
long  before  I  became  bolder,  and  jumped  on  and 
off  of  the  foot-boards  and  brake-beams  like  any 
other  lunatic.  That  all  four  of  us  were  not  killed 
is  nothing  short  of  miracle. 

By  a  dint  of  hard  work  we  succeeded  in  getting 
a  train  made  up  for  Chaminade,  and  all  that  was 
now  needed  was  an  engine  and  crew.  There  was 
a  large  and  very  interested  crowd  of  men  stand- 
ing around  watching  us,  and  many  a  merry  ha-ha 
we  received  from  them  for  our  crude  efforts.  En- 
gine 341  was  hooked  on,  and  we  were  all  ready 
for  the  start.  Burns  was  going  to  play  con- 
ductor, Bennett  was  to  be  the  hind  man,  while  I 
was  to  ride  ahead.  But  where  were  the  engineer 
and  fireman  ?  Mr.  Hebron  had  counted  on  a  non- 
union engineer  to  pull  the  train,  and  a  wiper  to  do 
the  firing,  but  just  as  we  expected  them  to  appear, 
we  found  that  some  of  the  strikers  had  succeeded 
in  talking  them  over  to  their  side.  To  make  mat- 
ters worse  the  roundhouse  men  and  the  hostlers 
caught  the  fever,  and  out  they  went.  Mr.  Hebron 
was  in  a  great  pickle,  but  he  didn't  want  to  ac- 
knowledge that  he  was  beaten  so  he  stood  around 


1 40          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

hanging  on  in  hopes  something  would  turn  up  to 
relieve  the  strain. 

Now,  it  had  occurred  to  me  that  I  could  run 
that  engine.  When  I  was  young  and  fresh  in  the 
railroad  business,  I  had  spent  much  of  my  spare 
time  riding  around  on  switch  engines,  and  once 
in  a  while  I  had  taken  a  run  out  over  the  road  with 
an  engineer  who  had  a  friendly  interest  in  me. 
One  man,  old  Tom  Robinson,  who  pulled  a  fast 
freight,  had  been  particularly  kind  to  me,  and  on 
one  occasion  I  had  taken  a  few  days'  lay  off,  and 
gone  out  and  back  one  whole  trip  with  him.  Be- 
ing of  an  inquisitive  turn  of  mind,  I  asked  him  a 
great  many  questions  about  gauges,  valves,  oil 
cups,  eccentrics,  injectors,  etc.,  and  whenever  he 
would  go  down  under  his  engine,  I  always  paid 
the  closest  attention  to  what  he  did.  I  used  to 
ride  on  the  right  hand  side  of  the  cab  with  him, 
and  occasionally  he  would  allow  me  to  feel  the 
throttle  for  a  few  minutes.  Thus,  when  I  was  a 
little  older,  I  could  run  an  engine  quite  well.  I 
knew  the  oil  cups,  could  work  the  injector,  knew 
enough  to  open  and  close  the  cylinder  cocks,  could 
toot  the  whistle  and  ring  the  bell  like  an  old  timer, 
and  had  a  pretty  fair  idea,  generally  speaking,  of 
the  machine.  Having  all  these  things  in  mind,  I 
approached  Mr.  Hebron,  as  he  stood  cogitating 


A  General  Strike  141 

upon  his  ill-luck,  and  said,  "Mr.  Hebron,  I'll  run 
this  train  into  Chaminade  if  you  will  only  get 
some  one  to  keep  the  engine  hot." 

"You,"  said  Hebron,  "you  are  a  despatcher; 
what  the  devil  do  you  know  about  running  a  loco- 
motive?" 

I  told  him  I  might  not  know  much,  but  if  he 
would  say  the  word  I  would  get  those  twenty- 
three  cars  into  Chaminade,  or  know  the  reason 
why.  He  looked  at  me  for  a  minute,  asked  me  a 
few  questions  about  what  I  knew  of  an  engine  and 
then  said, 

"By  George!  I'll  risk  it.  Get  on  that  engine, 
my  boy ;  take  this  one  wiper  left  for  a  fireman,  and 
pull  out.  But  first  go  over  to  the  office  for  your 
orders.  You  won't  need  many,  because  every- 
thing is  tied  up  between  here  and  Johnsonville, 
and  you  will  have  a  clear  track.  Now  fly,  and  let 
me  see  what  kind  of  stuff  you  are  made  of." 

Strangely  enough,  after  he  had  consented  I  was 
not  half  so  eager  to  undertake  it ;  but  I  had  said  I 
would  and  now  I  must  stick  to  my  word,  or  ac- 
knowledge that  I  was  a  big  bluffer.  I  went  up  to 
the  office  and  Fred  Bennett  gave  me  the  orders. 
But  as  he  did  so  he  said:  "Bates,  that's  a  fool- 
hardy thing  for  you  to  do,  and  I  reckon  the  old 
man  must  be  crazy  to  allow  you  to  try  it,  but 


142          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

rather  than  give  in  to  that  mob  out  there  I'll 
see  you  through  with  it.  Now  don't  you  forget 
for  one  minute,  that  you  have  twenty-three  cars 
and  a  caboose  trailing  along  behind  you;  that  I 
am  on  the  hind  end,  and  that  I  have  a  wife  and 
family  to  support,  with  a  mighty  small  insurance 
on  my  life." 

He  went  out,  and  Bennett  told  the  cattle  men  to 
get  aboard  as  we  were  about  to  start.  All  this 
had  been  done  unbeknown  to  any  of  the  strikers; 
but  when  they  saw  me  coming  down  that  yard 
with  a  piece  of  yellow  tissue  paper  in  my  hand 
they  knew  something  was  up,  for  every  man  of 
them  knew  that  was  a  train  order.  But  where 
was  the  engineer  ? 

I  went  down  and  climbed  up  in  the  cab  of  old 
341,  and  removing  my  coat,  put  on  a  jumper  I  had 
brought  from  the  office.  Engine  341,  as  I  have 
said,  was  run  by  Horace  Daniels,  one  of  the  best 
men  that  ever  pulled  a  throttle,  and  his  pride  in 
her  was  like  that  of  a  mother  in  a  child.  She  was 
a  big  ten-wheeled  Baldwin,  and  I  have  heard  Dan- 
iels talk  to  her  as  if  she  was  a  human  being;  in 
fact,  he  said  she  was  the  only  sweetheart  he  ever 
had.  He  was  standing  in  the  crowd  and  when  he 
saw  me  put  on  the  jumper  he  came  over  and  said  : 


A  General  Strike  143 

"See  here,  Mr.  Hebron,  who  is  going  to  pull 
this  train  out  ?" 

Mr.  Hebron  who  was  standing  by  the  step,  said, 
"Bates  is." 

Daniels  grew  red  with  rage,  and  said : 

"Bates?  Why  good  heavens,  Mr.  Hebron, 
Bates  can't  run  an  engine ;  he's  nothing  but  an  old 
brass  pounder,  and,  judging  from  some  of  the 
meets  he  has  made  for  me  on  this  division,  he 
must  be  a  very  poor  one  at  that.  This  here  old 
girl  don't  know  no  one  but  me  nohow ;  for  God's 
sake  don't  let  her  disgrace  herself  by  going  out 
with  that  sandy-haired  chump  at  the  throttle." 

Mr.  Hebron  smiled  and  said,  "Well  then,  you 
pull  her  out,  Daniels." 

Daniels  shook  his  head  and  replied,  "You  know 
I  can't  do  that,  Mr.  Hebron.  It's  true  I'm  not  in 
sympathy  with  this  strike  one  jot,  but  the  boys  are 
out,  and  I've  got  to  stand  by  them.  But  when 
this  strike  is  over  I  want  old  341  back.  Why, 
Mr.  Hebron,  I'd  rather  see  a  scab  run  her  than 
that  old  lightning  jerker." 

But  Mr.  Hebron  was  firm  and  Daniels  walked 
slowly  and  sadly  away.  By  this  time  we  had  a 
good  head  of  steam  on,  and  Bennett  gave  me  the 
signal  to  pull  out.  I  shoved  the  reverse  lever  from 


1 44          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

the  centre  clear  over  forward,  and  grasping  the 
throttle,  tremblingly  gave  it  a  pull. 

Longfellow  says,  in  "The  Building  of  the 
Ship :"  "She  starts,  she  moves,  she  seems  to  feel 
a  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel."  I  can  fancy  ex- 
actly how  that  ship  felt,  because  just  as  the  first 
hiss  of  steam  greeted  my  ears  and  I  felt  that  engine 
move,  I  felt  a  peculiar  thrill  run  along  my  keel, 
and  my  heart  was  in  my  mouth.  She  did  not  start 
quite  fast  enough  for  me,  so  I  gave  the  throttle 
another  jerk,  and  whew !  how  those  big  drivers 
did  fly  around !  I  shut  her  off  quickly,  gave  her  a 
little  sand,  and  started  again.  This  time  she  took 
the  rail  beautifully,  walking  away  like  a  thorough- 
bred. 

There  is  a  little  divide  just  outside  of  the  El 
Monte  yard,  and  then  for  a  stretch  of  about  five 
miles,  it  is  down  grade.  After  this  the  road  winds 
around  the  river  banks,  with  level  tracks  to  John- 
sonville,  where  the  double  track  commences.  All 
I  had  to  do  was  to  get  the  train  to  the  double  track, 
and  from  there  a  belt  line  engine  was  to  take  it  in. 
Thus  my  run  was  only  thirty-five  miles. 

Our  start  was  very  auspicious,  and  when  we 
were  going  along  at  a  pretty  good  gait,  I  pulled 
the  reverse  lever  back  to  within  one  point  of  the 
centre,  and  opened  her  up  a  little  more.  She  stood 


"  See  here,  who  is  going  to  pull  this  train  f  " 

(Page  143.) 


A  General  Strike  145 

up  to  her  work  just  as  if  she  had  an  old  hand  at  the 
throttle  instead  of  a  novice.  I  wish  I  were  able 
to  describe  my  sensations  as  the  engine  swayed 
to  and  fro  in  her  flight.  The  fireman  was  rather 
an  intelligent  chap,  and  had  no  trouble  in  keeping 
her  hot,  and  twenty-three  cars  wasn't  much  of  a 
train  for  old  341.  We  went  up  the  grade  a-flying. 
When  we  got  over  the  divide,  I  let  her  get  a  good 
start  before  I  shut  her  off  for  the  down  grade. 
And  how  she  did  go !  I  thought  at  times  she 
would  jump  the  track  but  she  held  on  all  right.  At 
the  foot  of  this  grade  is  a  very  abrupt  curve  and 
when  she  struck  it,  I  thought  she  bounded  ten  feet 
in  the  air.  My  hat  was  gone,  my  hair  was  flying 
in  the  wind,  and  all  the  first  fright  was  lost  in  the 
feeling  of  exhilaration  over  the  fact  that  7  was  the 
one  who  was  controlling  that  great  iron  monster 
as  she  tore  along  the  track.  I — I  was  doing  it 
all  by  myself.  It  was  like  the  elixir  of  life  to  an 
invalid.  My  fireman  came  over  to  me  at  one  time 
and  said  in  my  ear  that  I'd  better  call  for  brakes 
or  the  first  thing  we  knew  we  would  land  in  the 
river.  Brakes !  Not  on  your  life.  I  didn't  want 
any  brakes,  because  if  she  ever  stopped  I  wasn't 
sure  that  I  could  get  her  started  again.  We  made 
the  run  of  thirty-five  miles  in  less  than  an  hour, 
and  when  we  reached  Johnsonville  I  received  a 


146          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

message  from  Mr.  Hebron,  congratulating  me  on 
my  success.  But  Bennett — well,  the  rating  he 
gave  me  was  worth  going  miles  to  hear.  He  said 
that  never  in  his  life  had  he  taken  such  a  ride,  nor 
would  he  ever  volunteer  to  ride  behind  a  crazy  en- 
gineer again.  But  I  didn't  care ;  I  had  pulled  the 
train  in  as  I  said  I  would,  and  the  engine  was  in 
good  shape,  barring  a  hot  driving  box.  I  may 
add,  however,  that  I  don't  care  to  make  any  such 
trip  again  myself. 

We  went  back  on  a  mail  train  that  night,  that 
was  run  by  a  non-union  engineer,  and  in  a  day  or 
two  the  strike  was  declared  off,  the  men  returned 
to  work,  and  peace  once  more  reigned  supreme. 
Daniels  got  his  "old  girl"  in  as  good  shape  as  ever, 
and  once  when  he  was  up  in  my  office  he  told  me 
he  had  hoped  that  old  341  would  get  on  the  ram- 
page that  day  I  took  her  out  and  "kick  the  stuf- 
fin'  "  out  of  that  train  and  every  one  on  it.  Poor 
old  Daniels,  he  stuck  to  his  "old  girl"  to  the  last, 
but  one  day  he  struck  a  washout,  and  as  a  result 
received  a  "right  of  track  order,"  on  the  road  that 
leads  to  the  paradise  of  all  railroaders. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

CHIEF      DESPATCHER — AN      INSPECTION      TOUR — 
BIG    RIVER    WRECK 

I  HAD  always  supposed  that  the  higher  up  you 
ascended  in  any  business,  the  easier  would  be  your 
position  and  the  happier  your  lot.  What  a  fallacy, 
especially  in  the  railroad  service,  where  your  re- 
sponsibilities, work,  care,  and  worries  increase  in 
direct  proportion  as  you  rise !  The  operator's  re- 
sponsibility is  limited  to  the  correct  reception, 
transmission,  delivery  and  repetition  of  his  orders 
and  messages ;  the  despatcher's  to  the  correct  con- 
ception of  the  orders  and  their  transmission  at  the 
proper  time  to  the  right  train ;  but  the  chief  de- 
spatcher's responsibilities  combine  not  cnly  these 
but  many  more.  A  despatcher's  work  is  cut  out 
for  him,  just  as  the  tailor  would  cut  his  cloth 
for  a  journeyman  workman,  and  when  his  eight 
hour  trick  is  done,  his  work  for  the  day  is  finished 
and  his  time  is  his  own.  Not  so  the  chief.  His 
work  is  never  done ;  he  works  early  and  late,  and 
even  at  night  when  he  goes  home  utterly  tired  out 
'47 


148          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

from  his  long  day,  he  is  liable  to  be  called  up  to 
go  out  on  a  wrecking  outfit,  or  to  perform  some 
special  duty.  As  soon  as  anything  goes  wrong  on 
a  division  the  first  cry  is,  "Send  for  the  chief  de- 
spatcher." Almost  everybody  on  the  division  is 
under  his  jurisdiction  except  the  division  super- 
intendent, and  sometimes  I  have  seen  that  mighty 
dignitary  take  a  back  seat  for  his  chief  despatcher. 
It  was  some  ten  years  after  I  had  begun  to 
pound  brass,  that  I  awoke  one  fine  morning  to  find 
myself  offered  the  position  of  chief  despatcher  on 
the  central  division  of  the  C.  N.  &  Q.  Railway, 
with  headquarters  at  Selbyville.  I  was  very  well 
satisfied  at  El  Monte,  had  been  promoted  to  the 
first  trick  and  had  many  friends  whom  I  did  not 
like  to  leave,  but  then,  I  was  as  high  as  I  could 
get  in  a  good  many  years,  because  Fred  Bennett, 
the  chief,  was  a  stayer  from  away  back,  and  there 
wouldn't  be  a  vacancy  there  for  a  long  time  to 
come.  The  district  of  which  I  was  to  take  charge 
was  about  three  hundred  miles  long,  and  consisted 
of  three  freight  divisions  of  one  hundred  miles 
each.  That  meant  a  whole  lot  of  hard  confining 
work,  but  who  wouldn't  accept  a  promotion;  so 
after  carefully  considering  the  matter,  I  gratefully 
accepted,  and  was  duly  installed  in  my  new  posi- 
tion. As  I  did  not  know  anything  about  the  road 


Chief  Despatcher  1 49 

or  the  operators  thereon,  one  of  my  first  acts  was 
to  take  a  trip  of  inspection  over  the  road.  I  rode 
on  freight  trains  or  anything  that  came  along,  and 
dropped  off  as  I  wanted  to,  in  order  that  I  might 
become  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  road  and 
the  men 

One  of  the  time  card  rules  was  that  no  person 
was  to  be  allowed  to  enter  any  of  the  telegraph 
offices  except  those  on  duty  there ;  even  the  train 
men  were  supposed  to  receive  their  orders  and 
transact  their  business  at  the  window  or  counter. 
Generally,  however,  this  rule  was  not  enforced 
very  rigidly.  When  I  was  a  night  operator  I 
never  paid  any  attention  to  it  at  all.  I  dropped 
off  No.  6  at  eleven-thirty  one  night  at  Bakersville. 
A  night  office  was  kept  there  because  it  was  a  good 
order  point  and  had  a  water  tank.  I  had  never 
met  the  night  man  and  knew  nothing  of  him,  ex- 
cept that  he  was  a  fiery-tempered  Irishman  named 
Barry,  and  a  most  excellent  operator.  It  had  been 
told  me  that  the  despatchers  had,  on  more  than 
one  occasion,  complained  of  his  impudence,  but 
his  ability  was  so  marked  and  he  was  so  prompt 
in  answering  and  transacting  business,  that  he 
was  allowed  to  remain.  As  No.  6  pulled  out  he 
went  into  the  office,  closed  the  door  and  then  shut 
the  window.  He  had  apparently  not  seen  me,  or 


150          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

if  he  had  he  paid  no  attention  to  me,  so  I  went 
into  the  waiting-room  and  rapped  on  the  ticket 
window.  He  shoved  it  up,  stared  at  me  and 
gruffly  said,  "Well!  what's  wanted?" 

I  answered  pretty  sharply,  that  I  desired  to 
come  into  his  office. 

"Well  then  you  can  take  it  out  in  wanting,  be- 
cause you  don't  get  in  here,  see !" 

I  started  to  reason  with  him,  when  he  slammed 
the  window  in  my  face.  That  made  me  madder 
than  a  March  hare,  and  I  told  him  if  he  didn't  let 
me  in  that  office  mighty  quick,  I'd  smash  that  win- 
dow into  smithereens  and  come  in  anyhow. 

Biff !  Up  went  that  window,  and  Mr.  Barry's 
face  looking  like  a  boiled  beet  appeared,  "Smash 
that  window  will  you?  You  just  try  it  and  I'll 
smash  your  blamed  old  red  head  with  this  poker. 
Get  out  of  that  waiting-room.  Tramps  are  not 
allowed." 

Just  then  it  occurred  to  me  that  he  did  not  know 
me  from  the  sight  of  sole  leather;  so  I  said :  "Hold 
on  there,  young  man ;  I'm  Mr.  Bates,  the  newly 
appointed  chief  despatcher  of  this  division,  and 
I'm  out  on  a  tour  of  inspection.  Now  stop  your 
monkeying  and  open  up." 

"Bates  thunder!  Bates  would  never  come 
sneaking  out  over  the  road  in  this  manner.  You 


Chief  Despatcher  151 

pack  up  and  get.     It  will  take  more  than  your 
word  to  make  me  believe  you  are  Bates." 

I  saw  that  remonstrance  with  him  was  useless, 
and,  besides  I  had  an  idea  that  he  might  carry  out 
his  threat  to  smash  my  head  with  the  poker,  so  I 
went  over  to  a  mean  little  hotel  and  stayed  all 
night,  vowing  to  have  vengeance  on  his  head  in 
the  morning.  When  daylight  came,  I  went  back 
to  the  station,  and  Dayton,  the  day  man,  knew  me 
at  once,  having  worked  with  me  on  the  K.  M.  &  O. 
Barry  had  told  him  of  the  trouble,  and  he  was  hav- 
ing a  great  laugh  at  my  expense.  Barry,  himself, 
showed  up  in  a  little  while,  but  he  didn't  seem  the 
least  bit  disturbed,  when  he  found  out  who  I  really 
was.  He  said  there  was  a  time  card  rule,  that  for- 
bade him  allowing  any  unauthorized  person  in  his 
office;  he  thought  I  was  some  semi-respectable 
"hobo,"  who  wanted  a  place  to  stay  all  night;  how 
in  the  world  was  he  to  know  ?  Suppose  some  one 
else  had  come  out  and  said  he  was  the  chief  des- 
patcher,  was  he  going  to  let  them  in  the  office 
without  some  proof  ?  I  saw  that  this  was  mighty 
good  reasoning  and  that  he  was  right.  Did  I  fire 
him?  Not  much.  Men  on  railroads  who  so  im- 
plicitly obey  orders  are  too  valuable  to  lose;  and 
before  I  left  the  road  he  was  working  the  third 
trick. 


1 5  2          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

Things  ran  along  very  smoothly  for  a  while  and 
I  was  having  a  good  time.  The  winter  passed  and 
with  the  advent  of  spring  came  the  heavy  rains 
for  which  that  part  of  the  country  was  justly 
noted.  Then  the  work  commenced. 

One  Friday  evening  after  four  or  five  days  of 
the  steadiest  and  hardest  kind  of  rain,  I  received 
a  message  from  the  section  foreman  at  Truxton, 
saying  that  Big  River  was  beginning  to  come  up 
pretty  high,  and  that  the  constant  rains  were  mak- 
ing the  track  quite  soft.  I  immediately  sent  him 
an  order  to  put  out  a  track  walker  at  once,  and 
told  the  despatcher  on  duty  to  make  a  "slow  or- 
der" for  five  miles  this  side  of  the  Big  River;  the 
track  on  the  other,  or  south  side,  was  all  right, 
being  on  high  ground. 

Our  fast  mail  came  in  just  then,  and  after  the 
engines  were  changed,  the  engineer  and  conductor 
came  into  my  office  for  their  orders.  I  told  them 
about  the  soft  track,  and  in  a  spirit  of  pure  fun, 
remarked  to  Ben  Roberts,  the  engineer,  that  he 
had  better  look  out  or  he  would  be  taking  a  bath 
in  Big  River  that  night.  He  facetiously  replied : 
"Well,  I  don't  much  mind.  I'm  generally  so 
dirty  when  I  get  that  far  out  that  a  bath  would  do 
me  good." 

They  received  their  orders,  and  as  Roberts  went 


Chief  Despatcher  153 

out  the  door,  he  laughingly  said,  "I  reckon,  Bates, 
you'd  better  send  the  wrecker  out  right  after  us  to 
fish  me  out  of  Big  River  to-night." 

I  stepped  over  to  the  window,  saw  him  climb 
up  on  engine  232,  a  beautiful  McQueen,  and  pull 
out,  and  just  as  he  started,  he  turned  and  waved 
his  hand  to  me  as  if  in  token  of  farewell. 

Truxton,  five  miles  from  the  river,  was  not  a 
stop  for  the  mail,  but  I  had  them  flagged  there,  to 
give  them  another  special  warning  about  ap- 
proaching Big  River  with  caution.  Just  then  the 
track  walker  came  into  Truxton,  and  reported  that 
he  had  come  from  the  river  on  a  velocipede,  and 
that  while  the  track  was  soft  it  was  not  unsafe  and 
the  bridge  appeared  to  be  all  right.  Presently,  I 
heard,  "OS,  OS,  XN,  No.  21,  a  7 145,  d  7 151"  and 
I  knew  the  mail  had  gone  on. 

The  next  station  south  was  Burton,  three  miles 
beyond  the  bridge,  and  I  thought  I  would  wait 
until  I  had  the  "OS"  report  from  there  before  go- 
ing home  for  the  night.  Thirty  minutes  passed 
and  no  sign  of  her.  This  did  not  worry  me 
much,  because  I  knew  Roberts  would  be  extremely 
careful  and  run  slow  until  he  passed  the  bridge. 
In  a  minute  Truxton  opened  up  and  said,  "Rain- 
ing like  blazes  now."  I  asked  him  where  the  track 


154          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

walker  was,  and  he  said  he  had  gone  out  towards 
the  bridge  just  after  the  mail  had  left. 

Fifty  minutes  of  the  most  intense  anxiety 
passed,  and  all  of  a  sudden  every  instrument  in  the 
office  ceased  clicking.  As  soon  as  a  wire  opens, 
all  the  operators  are  instructed  to  try  their  ground 
wires,  and  in  that  way  the  break  is  soon  located. 
Bentonville,  Bakersville,  Muncy,  Ashton,  all  in 
quick  succession  tried  their  grounds,  and  reported 
"All  wires  open  south."  Presently  the  despatch- 
ers'  wire  closed  again,  and  "DS,  DS,  XN."  There ! 
that  was  Truxton  calling  us  now.  I  answered  and 
he  said,  "Wires  all  open  south.  Heavy  rain  now 
falling;  violent  wind  storm  has  just  passed  over 
us;  lots  of  lightning;  looks  like  the  storm  would 
last  all  night." 

I  told  him  to  hustle  out  and  get  the  section  fore- 
man, and  gave  him  an  order  to  take  his  gang  and 
car  and  go  to  the  bridge  and  back  at  once  and 
make  a  full  report. 

But  where  was  21  all  this  time?  Stuck  in  the 
mud,  I  hoped,  but  all  the  same  I  was  beginning 
to  have  a  great  many  misgivings.  Mr.  Antwerp, 
the  division  superintendent,  came  in  just  then,  and 
I  reported  all  the  facts  of  the  case  to  him.  He 
was  very  much  worried,  but  said  he  hoped  it 
would  turn  out  all  right.  Getting  nothing  from 


Chief  Despatcher  155 

Burton,  on  the  south,  I  told  Truxton  to  keep  on 
his  ground  until  the  section  gang  or  track  walker 
came  back  with  a  report.  Twenty  minutes  later 
he  began  to  call  "DS"  with  all  his  might.  I  an- 
swered and  this  is  what  the  despatcher's  copy  op- 
erator took : 

Truxton,  5  |  21,  188 — . 
"M.  N.  B. 
"DS. 

"No.  21  went  through  Big  River  bridge  to- 
night ;  track  was  soft  all  the  way  over  from  Trux- 
ton ;  engine,  mail,  baggage  and  one  coach  on  the 
bridge  when  it  gave  way;  three  Pullmans  stayed 
on  the  track.  Roberts,  engineer ;  Carter,  fireman, 
and  Sampson,  conductor,  all  missing.  Need  doc- 
tors. 

"O'HARA, 

"Brakeman." 

My  God !  wasn't  it  awful !  I  sent  one  caller  to 
get  out  the  wrecking  crew  and  another  for  a  doc- 
tor. I  then  instructed  Burke  to  prepare  orders 
for  the  wrecker,  pulling  everything  off  and  giving 
her  a  clean  sweep;  told  Truxton  to  keep  on  his 
ground  wire  and  stay  close;  and  pulling  on  my 
rain  coat,  I  bounded  down  the  steps  and  up  to  the 
roundhouse  to  hurry  up  the  engine.  Engine  122, 
with  Ed  Stokes  at  the  throttle,  was  just  backing 
down  as  I  came  out,  so  I  ran  back,  signed  the  or- 


156          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

ders,  and  as  soon  as  the  doctors  arrived,  Mr.  Ant- 
werp told  me  to  pull  out  and  take  charge,  saying 
he  would  come  out  if  necessary  on  a  special. 

It  was  scarcely  five  minutes  from  the  time  I  re- 
ceived the  first  message  until  we  pulled  out  and 
started  on  our  wild  ride  of  rescue.  Forty  miles 
in  forty  minutes,  with  one  slow  down  was  our 
time.  The  old  derrick  and  wreck  outfit  swayed 
to  and  fro  like  reeds  in  the  wind,  as  we  went  down 
the  track  like  a  thunderbolt,  but  fortunately  we 
held  to  the  rails.  There  was  scarcely  a  word 
spoken  in  the  caboose,  every  one  being  intent  upon 
holding  on  and  thinking  of  the  horrible  scene  we 
were  soon  to  view.  When  we  reached  Truxton  we 
found  the  track  walker  there,  and  after  hearing  his 
story  in  brief,  we  pulled  out  for  the  bridge.  Our 
ride  from  Truxton  over  to  the  wreck  was  frightful. 
It  was  still  raining  torrents,  the  wind  was  coming 
up  again,  lightning  flashed,  thunder  rolled  and  the 
track  was  so  soft  in  some  places  that  it  seemed 
as  if  we  would  topple  over ;  but  we  finally  reached 
there — and  then  what  a  scene  to  behold! 

The  bridge,  a  long  wooden  trestle,  was  com- 
pletely gone,  nothing  being  left  but  twisted  iron 
and  a  few  broken  stringers  hanging  in  the  air. 
Four  mail  clerks,  the  express  messenger,  and  the 


Chief  Despatcher  157 

baggage  man  were  drowned  like  rats  in  a  trap. 
Poor  Ben  Roberts  had  hung  to  his  post  like  the 
hero,  that  he  was,  and  was  lost.  Sampson,  the 
conductor,  and  Carter,  the  fireman,  were  both 
missing,  and  in  the  forward  coach,  which  was  not 
entirely  submerged,  having  fallen  on  one  end  of 
the  baggage  car,  were  many  passengers,  a  num- 
ber of  whom  were  killed,  and  the  rest  all  more  or 
less  injured. 

The  river  was  not  very  wide,  and  I  had  the 
headlight  taken  off  of  our  engine  and  placed  on 
the  bank;  and  presently  a  wrecker  came  up  from 
the  south,  and  her  headlight  was  similarly  placed, 
casting  a  ghastly  weird,  white  light  over  the  scene 
of  suffering  and  desolation.  I  cut  in  a  wrecking 
office,  Truxton  took  off  his  ground,  I  put  on  mine, 
and  Mr.  Antwerp  was  soon  in  possession  of  all 
the  facts.  A  little  later  I  was  standing  up  to  my 
knees  in  mud  and  water,  and  I  heard  a  weak  voice 
say:  "Mr.  Bates,  for  God's  sake  let  me  speak  to 
you  a  minute." 

I  looked  around  and  beheld  the  most  woebe- 
gone, bedraggled  specimen  of  humanity  I  had  ever 
seen  in  my  life.  "Well,  who  under  the  sun  are 
you  ?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  Carter,  the  fireman  of  No.  21.    When  I 


158          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

felt  the  bridge  going  I  jumped.  I  was  half  stunned, 
but  managed  to  keep  afloat,  being  carried  rapidly 
down  the  stream.  I  struck  the  bank  about  a  mile 
and  a  half  below  here,  and  I've  had  one  almighty 
big  struggle  to  get  back.  For  the  love  of  the  Vir- 
gin give  me  a  drink;  I'm  half  dead;"  and  with 
that  the  poor  fellow  fell  over  senseless. 

I  called  one  of  the  doctors  and  had  him  taken 
to  the  caboose  of  the  wrecker,  and  when  I  had 
time  I  went  in  and  heard  the  rest  of  his  story.  The 
poor  chap  was  badly  hurt,  having  one  ankle 
broken,  besides  being  bruised  up  generally.  He 
said  when  No.  2 1  left  Truxton,  Roberts  proceeded 
at  a  snail-like  pace,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for  a 
wash  out.  He  slowed  almost  to  a  standstill  be- 
fore going  on  the  bridge,  but  everything  appear- 
ing all  safe  and  sound  he  started  again,  remark- 
ing to  Carter,  "Here's  where  I  get  the  bath  that 
Bates  spoke  about." 

The  engine  was  half  way  over  when  there  came 
a  deafening  roar;  the  train  quivered,  and — then 
Carter  jumped.  That  was  all  he  knew.  It  was 
enough,  and  we  sent  him  back  with  the  rest  of  the 
wounded  the  next  morning.  He  is  pulling  a  pas- 
senger train  there  to-day.  The  engine  was  lost 
in  the  quicksands,  and  was  never  recovered,  and 


Chief  Despatcher  159 

Ben  Roberts  stayed  with  her  to  the  last.  He  had 
more  than  his  bath  in  Big  River  that  night ;  he  had 
his  funeral;  the  river  was  his  grave,  and  the  en- 
gine his  shroud 


CHAPTER  XVII! 

A  PROMOTION  BY  FAVOR  AND  ITS  RESULTS 

I  HAD  been  on  the  C.  N.  &  Q.  for  about  eight 
months,  when  my  second  trick  man  took  sick, 
and  being  advised  to  seek  a  healthier  climate,  re- 
signed and  went  south.  Generally  speaking  the 
chief  despatcher's  recommendation  is  enough  to 
place  a  man  in  his  office ;  and  as  I  had  always  be- 
lieved in  the  rule  of  seniority,  I  wanted  to  appoint 
the  third  trick  man  to  the  second  trick,  make  the 
day  copy  operator  third  trick  man,  and  call  in  a 
new  copy  operator  to  replace  the  night  man  who 
would  be  promoted  to  the  day  job.  In  fact,  I  had 
started  the  ball  rolling  toward  the  accomplishment 
of  this  end,  when  Mr.  Antwerp,  the  division  su- 
perintendent, defeated  all  my  plans  by  perempt- 
orily asserting  his  prerogative  and  appointing  his 
nephew,  John  Krantzer,  who  had  been  night  copy 
operator  to  the  third  trick.  I  protested  with  all 
my  might,  in  fact  was  once  on  the  point  of  re- 
signing my  position  but  the  old  man  wouldn't  hear 
of  either  proposition,  and  Krantzer  secured  the 
160 


A  Promotion  by  Favor          161 

place.  Now  while  Krantzer  was  an  excellent  copy 
operator,  he  was  very  young,  and  lacked  that  per- 
sistence and  reliability  so  essential  in  a  successful 
despatcher.  After  I  had  protested  until  I  was 
black  in  the  face,  I  asked  Mr.  Antwerp  at  least  to 
put  the  young  man  on  the  second  trick,  so  that  in 
a  measure  I  could  have  him  under  my  eye.  But 
no,  nothing  but  the  third  trick  would  satisfy  him, 
so  on  the  third  trick  the  rattle-brained  chap  went 
the  next  night. 

He  struggled  through  the  first  night  without 
actually  killing  anybody,  but  his  train  sheet  the 
next  morning  resembled  a  man  with  a  very  bad 
case  of  measles ;  there  were  delays  on  everything 
on  the  road,  with  very  few  satisfactory  explana- 
tions. There  was  the  fast  mail  twenty-five  min- 
utes in  going  six  miles.  Cause  ?  None  was  given. 
But  a  perusal  of  the  order  book  showed  that 
Krantzer  had  made  a  meet  for  her  with  a  freight 
train,  and  had  hung  her  up  on  a  blind  siding  for 
fifteen  minutes.  Freights  that  had  been  out  all 
night  were  still  out,  tied  up  in  all  kinds  of  shapes. 
Meets  had  been  made  for  two  long  trains  at  a 
point  where  the  passing  track  was  not  large 
enough  to  accommodate  either  one  of  them,  and 
the  result  was  thirty  minutes  lost  by  both  of  them 
in  "raw  hiding"  by.  Many  other  discrepancies 


1 62          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

were  noticeable,  but  these  sufficed  to  show  that 
Krantzer's  abilities  as  a  despatcher  were  of  a  very 
low  order.  However,  I  reflected,  that  it  was  his 
first  night,  and  I  remembered  my  own  similar  ex- 
perience not  many  years  ago,  so  I  simply  sub- 
mitted the  sheet  to  Mr.  Antwerp  without  com- 
ment. He  wiped  his  glasses,  carefully  adjusted 
them  on  his  aristocratic  nose,  and  after  glancing 
at  the  sheet  for  a  few  moments,  said,  "Ah !  humph ! 
Well !  Well !  Well !  Not  a  very  auspicious  start, 
to  be  sure;  but  the  boy  will  pick  up.  Just  jack 
him  up  in  pretty  good  shape,  Bates ;  it  will  do  him 
good."  I  jacked  him  up  all  right  to  the  queen's 
taste  but  it  was  like  pouring  water  on  a  duck's 
back. 

The  second  night  was  not  much  of  an  improve- 
ment, and  I  made  a  big  kick  to  Mr.  Antwerp  the 
following  morning,  but  it  did  no  good.  The 
third  night  was  a  hummer.  I  was  kept  at  the 
office  pretty  late,  in  fact  until  after  eleven  o'clock, 
and  before  going  home  I  wrote  Krantzer  a  note 
telling  him  to  be  very  careful  as  there  were  many 
trains  on  the  road.  Our  through  business  at  this 
time  was  very  heavy,  and  compelled  us  to  run 
many  extras  and  specials.  I  was  particular  to  in- 
form him  of  two  extras  north,  that  would  leave 
Bradford,  the  lower  end  of  the  division,  some  time 


A  Promotion  by  Favor          163 

after  12  130  A.  M.,  and  directed  him  to  run  them 
as  special  freights  having  the  right  of  track  over 
all  trains  except  the  passengers.  Each  train  was 
made  up  of  twenty-five  cars  of  California  fruit 
bound  for  New  York,  and  they  were  the  first  of 
their  kind  to  be  run  by  us.  We  had  a  strong  com- 
petitor for  this  class  of  business  in  the  Valley 
Route,  a  line  twenty  miles  away,  and  were  making 
a  big  bid  for  the  trade.  The  general  manager  had 
sent  a  message  that  a  special  effort  was  to  be 
made  to  put  the  two  trains  through  a-whooping, 
and  I  had  ordered  engines  228  and  443,  two  of 
the  best  on  the  road,  to  pull  them.  Burke,  the 
second  trick  man  had  everything  running 
smoothly  at  the  time  I  wrote  the  note,  and  I  told 
Krantzer  that,  as  it  looked  then,  all  he  would  have 
to  do  would  be  to  keep  them  coming.  No.  13,  a 
fast  freight  south,  had  an  engine  that  wasn't 
.steaming  very  well,  and  I  suggested  to  him  to  put 
her  on  the  siding  at  Manitou.  It  would  delay  13 
about  fifteen  minutes  but  her  freight  was  all  dead 
stuff,  so  that  would  not  make  much  difference.  I 
did  everything  but  write  the  order,  and  that  I 
could  not  do,  because  I  couldn't  tell  just  what  the 
conditions  would  be  when  the  extras  reached 
Bradford,  where  they  would  receive  the  order. 
Krantzer  succeeded  in  getting  them  started  in 


1 64          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

fair  shape;  but  not  content  to  let  well  enough 
alone,  he  thought  he  would  run  No.  13  on  to 
Burnsides  instead  of  putting  her  on  the  siding 
at  Manitou  as  I  had  suggested,  and  gave  orders 
to  that  effect.  After  he  had  given  the  "complete" 
he  told  the  operator  to  tell  them  to  "fly."  If  he 
had  given  this  same  order  for  the  meeting  at 
Burnsides  to  the  two  extras,  at  the  same  time,  all 
would  have  been  well,  except  that  the  extras 
would  have  been  delayed  some  fifteen  minutes,  but 
this  he  was  unable  to  do.  Burnsides  itself  is  only 
a  day  office,  so  he  could  not  communicate  with 
them  there,  and  they  had  already  passed  Gloriana, 
the  first  night  office  south  of  Burnsides.  The  op- 
erator at  Gloriana  heard  the  order  to  13  and  told 
Krantzer  it  was  a  risky  thing  to  do ;  but  he  told 
him  "to  mind  his  own  business,  as  he  (Krantzer) 
could  run  that  division  without  any  help." 

No.  13  was  pulled  by  engine  67,  with  Jim  Bush 
at  the  throttle,  and  he  was  such  a  runner  that  he 
had  earned  the  sobriquet  of  "Lightning  Jimmie." 
While  he  had  reported  early  in  the  evening  that 
his  engine  was  not  steaming  very  well,  he  had 
succeeded  in  getting  her  to  working  good  by  this 
time.  Burnsides  is  at  the  foot  of  a  long  grade 
from  the  north,  and  about  a  mile  up  there  is  a 
very  abrupt  curve  as  the  track  winds  around  the 


A  Promotion  by  Favor          165 

side  of  the  hill.  The  two  extras  were  bowling 
along  merrily  when  they  struck  this  grade;  and 
although  there  is  a  time  card  rule  that  says  that 
trains  will  be  kept  ten  minutes  apart,  they  were 
right  together,  helping  each  other  over  the  grade. 
In  fact,  it  was  one  train  with  two  engines,  some- 
what of  a  double  header  with  the  second  engine 
in  the  middle.  They  were  going  on  for  all  they 
were  worth,  expecting  to  meet  No.  13  at  Manitou, 
as  originally  ordered. 

In  the  meantime,  Bush  pulling  No.  13,  had 
passed  Manitou,  and  with  thirty-eight  heavy  cars 
behind  him,  was  working  her  for  all  she  was  worth 
on  the  down  grade,  so  as  to  get  on  the  siding  for 
the  extras  at  Burnsides.  He  was  carrying  out 
Krantzer's  order  to  "fly,"  with  a  vengeance.  And 
just  as  he  turned  the  curve,  he  saw,  not  fifty  yards 
ahead  of  him,  the  headlight  of  the  first  extra.  To 
stop  was  out  of  the  question.  He  whistled  once 
for  brakes,  reversed  his  engine,  pulled  her  wide 
open  and  then  jumped !  He  landed  safely  enough, 
and  beyond  a  broken  right  arm,  and  a  badly 
bruised  leg,  was  unhurt.  His  poor  fireman,  though, 
jumped  on  the  other  side  and  was  dashed  to  pieces 
on  the  rocks;  and  the  head  man  and  engineer  of 
the  first  extra  were  also  killed.  I  had  known 
many  times  of  two  trains  being  put  in  the  hole; 


1 66         Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

but  this  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  three 
of  them  so  placed. 

Krantzer  had  sense  enough  to  order  out  the 
wrecker,  and  send  for  me.  I  knew  just  as  soon 
as  I  heard  the  caller's  rap  on  my  door  that  he  had 
done  something  so  I  lost  no  time  in  getting  over 
to  the  office  and  there  sat  Krantzer  as  cool  as  if  he 
had  not  just  killed  three  men  by  his  gross  care- 
lessness and  cost  the  company  thousands  of  dol- 
lars. I  had  the  old  man  called  and  when  he  came 
and  learned  what  had  occurred,  his  discomfiture 
was  so  great  that  I  felt  fully  repaid  for  all  my  an- 
noyance on  his  nephew's  account.  He  directed 
me  to  go  out  to  the  wreck  and  report  to  him  upon 
arrival.  I  had  Forbush,  the  first  trick  man,  called 
and  placed  him  in  charge  of  the  office  during  my 
absence.  Incidentally,  I  told  Krantzer  he  had  bet- 
ter be  scarce  when  I  sent  the  remains  of  those 
crews  in,  because  I  fancied  they  were  in  a  fit  mood 
to  kill  him.  When  I  returned  I  found  that  he  had 
gone.  It  appeared  that  Jim  Bush  went  up  into  the 
office,  and  although  he  had  one  arm  broken,  he 
was  prepared  to  beat  the  life  out  of  that  crazy 
young  despatcher.  Forbush  saw  him  coming  and 
gave  Krantzer  a  tip,  and  as  Bush  came  in  one 
door,  Krantzer  went  out  the  other. 

The  effects  of  this  wreck  were  far  beyond  cal- 


A  Promotion  by  Favor          167 

culation  to  the  company  because  they  lost  the  busi- 
ness they  were  striving  to  win,  and  the  way  the 
general  manager  went  for  old  man  Antwerp  was 
enough  to  make  us  all  grin  with  delight.  It  is 
needless  to  say  I  was  allowed  to  place  my  own 
men  thereafter. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

JACKING  UP  A  NEGLIGENT  OPERATOR — A  CONVICT 
OPERATOR DICK,  THE  PLUCKY  CALL  BOY 

ONE  of  the  most  unpleasant  duties  I  had  to  per- 
form was  that  of  "jacking  up"  operators,  and  pun- 
ishing them  for  their  short-comings.  Generally, 
if  the  case  was  not  a  very  bad  one,  and  the  man 
had  a  good  reputation,  I  would  try  and  smooth 
it  over  with  only  a  reprimand ;  but  there  are  times 
"when  patience  ceases  to  be  a  virtue,"  and  punish- 
ment must  be  inflicted.  The  train  sheet  is  always 
the  first  indication  that  some  operator  is  to  be 
"hauled  up  on  the  carpet."  One  morning  I  found 
the  following  entry  on  the  sheet : — 

"No.  1 6  delayed  forty-five  minutes  at  Benton- 
ville,  account  not  being  able  to  raise  the  operator 
at  Sicklen  in  that  time.  Called  for  explanation 
and  operator  said  'he  was  over  at  hotel  getting 
some  lunch.'  " 

That  excuse  "over  at  hotel  getting  some  lunch," 
is  as  familiar  to  a  railroad  operator  as  the  creed 
is  to  a  good  churchman.  A  young  man  named 
168 


Jacking  Up  an  Operator         169 

Charles  Ferral  was  the  night  man  at  Sicklen,  and 
his  ability  as  an  operator  was  only  exceeded  by  his 
inability  to  tell  the  truth  when  he  was  in  a  tight 
place.  I  was  too  old  an  operator  to  be  fooled  by 
any  such  a  yarn  as  this;  and  besides,  the  con- 
ductor of  No.  17  reported  to  me  that  he  had  found 
Ferral  stretched  out  on  the  table  asleep,  when  he 
stopped  there  for  water.  But  he  was  a  first-rate 
man  and  I  didn't  want  to  lose  him,  so  I  wrote  him 
a  sharp  letter  and  told  him  that  a  repetition  of  his 
offense  would  cause  him  to  receive  his  time  in- 
stantly. He  was  as  penitent  as  the  prodigal  son, 
and  promised  never  to  so  offend  again;  and  he 
kept  his  word — for  just  about  ten  days. 

One  morning  he  asked  my  permission  to  come 
up  to  "DS"  on  No.  2  and  go  back  on  No.  3  in  the 
afternoon.  I  gave  it,  but  warned  him  to  not  lose 
too  much  sleep.  There  are  some  men  in  the  busi- 
ness that  the  sound  of  their  office  call  on  a  tele- 
graph instrument  will  cause  to  awaken  at  once 
no  matter  how  soundly  they  may  be  sleeping,  but 
Ferral  was  not  one  of  these.  The  night  follow- 
ing his  return  to  his  station,  I  was  kept  at  the  of- 
fice until  late,  and  about  eleven  o'clock  No.  22  ap- 
peared at  Bakersville,  and  wanted  to  run  to  Ash- 
ton  for  No.  17.  They  were  both  running  a  little 
late,  and  as  17  had  a  heavy  train  of  coal  and  sys- 


1 70          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

tern  empties,  I  told  Burke  to  let  them  go.  But  the 
only  station  at  which  we  could  then  get  an  order 
to  17  was  Sicklen,  Ferral's  station.  Burke  began 
to  call,  but  Sicklen  made  no  answer.  He  called 
for  forty-five  minutes  at  a  stretch,  22  all  the  time 
waiting  at  Bakersville.  He  stopped  for  five  min- 
utes and  then  went  at  it  again.  In  ten  minutes 
Sicklen  answered.  Burke  started  to  give  the  or- 
der, but  Ferral  broke  and  gave  the  "OS"  report 
that  17  had  just  gone  by. 

That  settled  it;  No.  22  was  hung  up  another 
hour  all  on  account  of  Ferral's  failure  to  attend 
to  his  duty.  I  opened  up  on  him  and  said,  "Where 
have  you  been  for  the  last  fifteen  minutes  ?"  The 
same  old  excuse,  "Lunch,"  came  back  at  me. 

"Well,  where  were  you  for  ten  minutes  before 
that?" 

Then  that  dear  old  stereotyped  expression, 
"Fixing  my  batteries,"  followed.  But  I  was  only 
too  sure  that  he  had  been  asleep,  and  No.  17  going 
by  had  awakened  him.  So  I  gently  remarked  that 
"I  was  not  born  yesterday,  and  said  that  he  would 
probably  have  ample  time  to  fix  his  batteries  after 
this;  that,  in  fact,  I  thought  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  for  him  to  take  a  long  course  in  battery 
work,  and  I  would  assist  him  all  I  could — I  would 
provide  him  with  the  time  for  the  work." 


Jacking  Up  an  Operator         171 

The  next  morning  I  laid  the  matter  before  Mr. 
Antwerp,  and  he  wanted  the  man  discharged 
forthwith.  But  during  the  night  my  anger  had 
cooled  somewhat  and  now  I  felt  inclined  to  give 
him  another  chance ;  so  I  simply  urged  that  he  be 
laid  off  for  a  while. 

"All  right,  Bates,  but  make  it  a  good  stiff  lay- 
off— not  less  than  fifteen  days,"  said  Mr.  Ant- 
werp. 

I  wrote  Ferral  accordingly;  but  I  had  scarcely 
finished  when  a  letter  came  from  him  to  me,  beg- 
ging off,  and  promising  anything  if  I  would  not 
discharge  him ;  but,  instead  would  lay  him  off  for 
forty-five  days.  I  took  him  at  his  word  and  gave 
him  the  forty-five  days  he  asked  for,  instead  of  the 
fifteen  I  had  intended  to  give  him.  But,  about 
two  weeks  later  he  came  up  to  "DS,"  and  looked 
so  woebegone,  and  pleaded  so  hard  to  be  taken 
back,  that  I  remitted  the  remainder  of  his  punish- 
ment. He  was  greatly  chagrined  when  he  learned 
that  he  had  trebled  his  own  sentence.  He  was 
never  remiss  again.  Go  over  to  the  despatcher's 
office  any  night  and  you  will  see  him,  bright  and 
alert,  sitting  opposite  the  despatcher  doing  the 
copying.  He  is  in  the  direct  line  of  promotion, 
and  some  day  will  be  a  despatcher  himself.  I 
never  regretted  my  leniency. 


172          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

In  addition  to  the  main  line,  I  had  a  branch  of 
thirty-eight  miles,  running  from  Bentonville  up 
to  Sandia.  The  despatching  for  this  branch  was 
done  from  my  office,  and  when  we  wanted  anyone 
there  Bentonville  would  cut  us  through.  This 
was  seldom  necessary,  however,  because  there 
were  only  two  trains  daily,  a  combination  freight 
and  passenger  each  way.  The  last  station  this 
side  of  Sandia  was  Alexis.  The  state  penitentiary 
was  located  there,  and  the  telegraphing  was  done 
by  a  convict  "trusty" — a  man  who,  having  been 
appointed  cashier  of  a  big  freight  office  in  the 
western  part  of  the  state,  couldn't  stand  prosper- 
ity, and,  in  consequence,  had  been  sent  up  for  six 
years.  His  conduct  had  been  so  good  that,  after 
he  had  served  four  years  inside  of  the  walls,  he 
was  made  a  "trusty."  His  ability  as  an  operator 
was  extraordinary.  He  had  a  smooth  easy  way 
of  sending  that  made  his  sending  as  plain  as  a 
circus  bill. 

The  two  branch  trains  on  the  branch  were 
known  as  61  and  62,  and  one  day  62,  running 
north  in  the  morning,  had  jumped  the  track  laying 
herself  out  about  ten  hours.  When  she  left  San- 
dia as  6 1  on  her  return  trip  south,  she  again  went 
off  the  track  and  the  result  was  sixteen  hours' 
more  delay.  We  wouldn't  send  a  wrecker  up  from 


Jacking  Up  an  Operator         173 

the  main  line,  and  they  had  to  work  out  their  own 
salvation.  When  they  finally  appeared  at  Alexis 
they  were  running  on  the  time  of  62.  That  would 
never  do,  and  the  conductor  asked  the  operator 
at  Alexis  to  get  him  orders  to  run  to  Bentonville 
regardless  of  No.  62.  Burke,  my  second  trick 
man,  was  on  duty  at  the  time,  and  it  so  chanced 
that  he  did  not  know  the  Alexis  man  was  a  con- 
vict. He  was  about  to  give  the  order  asked  for 
when  something  on  the  main  line  diverted  him 
for  a  moment.  When  he  was  ready  again,  Alexis 
broke  him  and  said,  "Wait  a  minute." 

To  tell  a  despatcher  to  wait  a  minute  when  he 
is  sending  a  train  order  is  to  court  sudden  death, 
and  Burke  said,  "Wait  for  what?" 

"For  whatever  you  blame  please,  I'm  going  out 
to  weigh  this  coal." 

Burke's  Irish  blood  was  all  up  in  his  head  by 
this  time,  and  he  said :  "What  do  you  mean  by 
talking  that  way  to  me?  No.  61  is  waiting  for 
this  '9' ;  now  you  copy  and  I'll  get  your  time  sent 
you  in  the  morning." 

"Oh!  will  you?  I  guess  my  time  is  all  fixed  so 
you  can't  touch  it.  I  only  wish  you  could;  I'd 
like  mighty  well  to  be  fired  from  this  job;  I 
wouldn't  even  wait  for  my  pay." 

I  had  been  sitting  at  my  desk  taking  it  all  in, 


174          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

and  was  just  about  ready  to  expire  with  laugnter, 
when  Burke  called  over  to  me:  "Did  you  hear 
that  young  fellow's  impudence?" 

"Yes,  I  heard." 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  I've 
never  had  an  operator  talk  to  me  like  that  before. 
I  must  certainly  insist  that  you  dismiss  him  at 
once.  He  and  I  can't  work  on  the  same  road." 

"Unfortunately,  Burke,"  said  I,  "the  State  has 
a  claim  on  his  services  for  two  years  yet,  and  I 
am  afraid  they  won't  waive  it." 

At  this  it  dawned  upon  Burke,  who  and  what 
the  man  really  was;  but  I  cannot  say  that  his 
humor  was  improved  at  once  by  the  discovery. 

One  morning  shortly  after  this  I  was  sitting  in 
my  office  making  up  an  annual  train  report,  and 
was  cussing  out  anything  and  everybody,  because 
this  train  report  is  one  of  the  worst  things  in  the 
whole  business.  It  was  figures  till  you  couldn't 
rest,  and  I  had  already  been  working  at  it  for 
three  days,  and  my  head  was  in  a  perfect  whirl. 
That  morning  one  of  our  call  boys  had  turned  up 
missing  and  that  fact  also  irritated  me.  It  would 
seem  that  a  call  boy  was  a  pretty  insignificant 
chap  in  a  big  railroad,  but  such  is  not  the  case. 
In  a  perfect  system  every  employee  is  like  a  cog 
in  a  big  wheel,  and  as  soon  as  one  cog  is  broken 


Jacking  Up  an  Operator         175 

there  is  a  jar  in  the  otherwise  smooth  symmetrical 
movement  of  the  machine.  The  call  boy  is  quite 
an  important  personage,  because,  upon  him  de- 
pends the  prompt  calling  of  the  various  crews  in 
time  to  take  out  their  trains.  He  must  keep  a 
keen  watch  on  the  call  board  for  the  marking  up 
of  trains ;  he  must  know  who  is  the  first  to  go  out, 
and  he  must  know  the  dwelling  place  of  every  en- 
gineer, fireman,  conductor  and  brakeman  in  the 
city.  On  a  big  division  like  ours,  this,  in  itself, 
was  not  a  small  job.  On  some  roads  men  are  em- 
ployed for  this  work,  but  I  had  always  been  par- 
tial to  the  boys,  and  kept  four  of  them,  two  on 
days  and  two  on  nights.  When  my  day  boy  left, 
I  promoted  a  night  boy  to  the  second  day  job,  and 
was  cudgeling  my  brain  for  a  good  chap  to  go  on 
nights.  In  a  little  while  I  heard  a  sharp  rap  on 
the  office  door,  and  in  response  to  my  "come  in," 
uttered  in  a  tone  that  was  anything  but  pleasant, 
a  sturdy  looking  little  chap  about  fourteen  years 
old  stood  before  me.  He  had  a  shock  of  jet  black 
hair,  tumbled  all  over  his  head,  a  pair  of  bright 
eyes,  round  full  face,  not  over  clean,  strong 
limbs  and  a  well  knit  body.  His  clothes  hung  on 
him  like  gunny  sacks,  and  the  crudity  of  the  many 
various  patches  indicated  that  they  had  not  been 


176          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

put  on  by  woman's  deft  fingers.  He  didn't  wait 
for  me  to  speak,  but  blurted  out : 

"Say,  mister,  I  have  just  heard  tell  as  how  you 
wants  a  call  boy.  Do  you  ?" 

He  took  my  breath  away  by  his  bluntness;  he 
looked  so  honest  and  sincere,  so  I  simply  replied, 
"Yes,"  and  waited. 

"Well  then,  I  wants  the  job.    See !" 

"What's  your  name,  youngster,  and  where  is 
your  home?" 

"My  name's  Dick  Durstine;  I  hain't  got  no 
home,  no  father,  no  mother,  no  nothin',  just  me, 
and  I  wants  to  learn  the  tick  tick  business.  It 
looks  dead  easy." 

This  was  really  funny,  but  I  liked  his  impu- 
dence, and,  while  I  had  no  intention  of  hiring  him, 
I  determined  to  draw  him  out,  so  I  said : 

"Where  were  you  born,  when  did  you  come 
here,  and  do  you  know  where  any  of  the  crews 
live?" 

"I  was  born  in  St.  Louis ;  mother  died  when  I 
was  a  kid,  and  Dad  was  such  a  drunken  worthless 
old  cuss  and  beat  me  so  much,  that  I  brought  up 
in  a  foundling  asylum.  I  come  in  here  riding  on 
the  trucks  of  your  mail  train  about  three  weeks 
ago,  and  the  fellers  up  in  the  roundhouse  have 
been  lettin'  me  feed  and  snooze  there.  I  know 


Jacking  Up  an  Operator         177 

where  all  the  crews  live  exceptin'  some  of  your 
kid  glove  engineers  wot  pulls  the  fast  trains,  but 
I  can  soon  find  them  out.  Please  give  me  the  job, 
mister;  I'm  honest  and  I'll  work  hard." 

Something  in  his  blunt  straightforward  way 
appealed  to  me  and  I  determined  to  try  him.  Han- 
dled right  I  imagined  he  would  be  a  good  man; 
handled  wrong,  he  would  probably  become  a 
bright  and  shining  light  of  the  genus  hobo.  So  I 
hired  him,  telling  him  his  salary  would  be  forty 
dollars  per  month. 

"Hully  gee!"  he  exclaimed,  "forty  plunks  a 
month !  Well  say !  I  won't  do  a  ting  wid  all  dat 
mun ;  I'll  just  buy  a  road.  Thank  you  mister,  I'll 
work  so  hard  for  you  that  you'll  not  be  sorry  you 
gave  me  the  job.  But  don't  you  forget  that  I 
wants  to  learn  the  tick  tick  business." 

That  night  at  seven  o'clock  he  went  to  work, 
and  it  didn't  take  long  to  see  that  he  was  as  bright 
as  a  new  dollar.  He  knew  everything  about  the 
division,  knew  all  the  crews  and  where  they  lived. 
Days  went  by  and  still  he  held  up  his  end  and  was 
a  great  favorite  with  all  the  force.  There  was  a 
local  instrument  in  the  office,  and  one  of  the  op- 
erators wrote  the  Morse  alphabet  for  him,  and 
ever  after  that  he  kept  pegging  away  at  the  key. 
He  practiced  writing  and  it  wasn't  many  weeks 


178          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

before  he  was  getting  to  be  something  of  an  op- 
erator. I  went  out  to  the  main  line  battery  room 
one  evening  to  give  some  instructions  to  the  man 
in  charge  and  there  I  discovered  Master  Dick  with 
a  battery  syringe  in  one  hand  and  a  brush  in  the 
other  deeply  engrossed  in  monkeying  with  the 
jars. 

"Look  here,  you  young  rascal,"  I  said  sharply, 
"what  are  you  doing  in  here?  First  thing  you 
know  you  will  short  circuit  some  of  these  batte- 
ries and  then  there'll  be  the  de'il  to  pay.  Don't 
you  ever  let  me  catch  you  out  here  again,  or  I'll 
fire  you  bodily." 

"I  hain't  been  doing  nothin',  Mister  Bates,  I  just 
wanted  to  see  what  made  the  old  thing  go  tick 
tick.  Wot's  all  them  glass  jars  for  wid  the  green 
water  and  the  tin  in  ?" 

I  explained  to  him  as  well  as  I  could  the  con- 
struction of  the  gravity  battery.  He  had  been  for- 
bidden to  monkey  with  any  of  the  instruments  or 
the  switch  board  in  the  main  office,  but  his  infer- 
nal inquisitiveness  soon  ran  away  with  his  sense, 
and  it  wasn't  long  before  he  was  in  trouble.  He 
pulled  a  plug  out  of  the  switch  board  one  evening, 
and  Burke  threatened  to  kill  him.  Another  even- 
ing, he  went  into  my  office  and  monkeyed  with 
an  instrument  that  I  kept  there  connected  to  the 


Jacking  Up  an  Operator         179 

despatcher's  wire,  and  left  it  open.  There  was  no 
report  from  any  of  the  offices  on  either  side,  and 
investigation  soon  revealed  the  culprit.  The  wire 
was  open  for  ten  minutes  and  Burke  was  as  mad 
as  a  March  hare,  when  he  reported  it  to  me  the 
next  morning.  I  sent  for  Master  Dick  and  in- 
formed him  that  another  such  a  report  against 
him  would  cause  his  instant  dismissal.  He  seemed 
penitent  enough,  but  two  nights  afterwards  he 
short  circuited  all  the  main  line  batteries  by  his 
foolishness,  and  raised  Cain  in  the  office  for  a 
while.  The  next  morning  his  time  was  presented 
to  him  and  he  was  told  to  get  out.  He  pleaded 
hard  but  his  offenses  had  been  too  numerous,  and 
I  had  to  let  him  go.  I  must  confess,  however,  that 
we  all  missed  him  greatly,  because,  in  spite  of  his 
troublesome  nature,  he  was  a  prime  favorite  with 
all  the  force. 

Our  road  ran  through  some  wild  unsettled 
country,  and  a  few  years  previous,  a  Mr.  Bob  For- 
ney and  some  distinguished  gentlemen  of  the  road, 
had  paid  us  a  visit,  with  the  result  that  the  ex- 
press company  lost  about  forty  thousand  dollars 
and  their  messenger  his  life.  The  country  be- 
came too  warm  for  them  and  they  fled. 

Our  flyer  left  two  nights  after  this,  having  on 
board  about  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  of  gov- 


1 80          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

ernment  money,  and  I  remarked  to  Bob  Stanton, 
the  conductor,  that  it  was  a  fine  chance  for  a  hold 
up,  but  he  laughed  it  off  and  said  that  civilization 
was  too  far  advanced  for  that  kind  of  work  just 
now. 

About  nine  o'clock  I  was  sitting  in  the  despatch- 
er's  office  smoking  a  cigar  before  going  home  for 
the  night,  when  all  at  once  the  despatcher's  wire 
and  the  railroad  line  opened.  Sicklen  reported 
south  of  him  and  then  took  off  his  ground.  Pretty 
soon  the  sounder  began  to  open  and  close  in  a  pe- 
culiar shaky  manner,  and  then  I  heard  the  follow- 
ing: 

'To  'DS,'  gang  of  robbers  goin'  to  hold  up  the 
flyer  in  Ashley's  cut  to-night.  They  will  place 
rails  and  ties  on  the  track  to  wreck  train  if  they 
don't  heed  signal.  Warn  train  to  watch  out  and 
bring  gang  out  from  Sicklen.  This  is  Dick  Durs- 
tine." 

All  was  quiet  for  a  minute  and  then  he  started 
again,  but  soon  he  stopped  short  and  we  heard  no 
more.  The  line  remained  open. 

We  raised  Sicklen  on  a  commercial  wire  and 
told  him  to  turn  his  red-light  and  hold  everything. 
I  was  in  somewhat  of  a  quandary;  the  sending 
had  been  miserable,  sounding  unlike  any  stuff 
Dick  had  ever  sent,  and  then  the  stopping  of  the 


Jacking  Up  an  Operator         181 

whole  business  made  it  seem  rather  suspicious. 
Still  Ashley's  cut  was  an  ideal  place  for  a  hold  up, 
and  the  weather  was  dark  and  stormy.  Every- 
thing was  propitious  for  just  such  a  job. 

In  the  meantime,  Ashton,  the  first  office  south 
of  Sicklen,  had  reported  on  the  commercial  line 
that  the  despatcher's  wire  was  open  north  of  him. 
That  would  place  it  near  the  cut  in  all  probability. 
Anyway  I  didn't  intend  to  take  any  chance,  so  I 
sent  a  message  to  Sicklen  telling  him  to  notify  the 
sheriff  of  all  the  facts  and  ask  him  to  send  out  a 
posse  on  the  flyer,  and,  also,  for  him  to  get  the 
day  man  to  go  out  and  patch  the  lines  up  until  a 
line  man  could  get  there  in  the  morning.  About 
twenty  minutes  afterwards  the  flyer  left  Sicklen 
nicely  fixed  with  a  strong  posse,  and  an  order  to 
approach  the  cut  with  caution.  It  was  only  three 
miles  from  Sicklen  to  the  cut,  and  I  knew  it  would 
be  but  a  matter  of  a  short  while  until  something 
was  heard.  Sure  enough,  forty  minutes  later  the 
despatcher's  wire  closed  and  this  message  came : 

"To  Bates,  DS : 

"Attempt  to  hold  up  No.  21  in  Ashley's  cut  was 
frustrated  by  the  sheriff's  posse.  Outlaws  had 
placed  ties  on  the  track  in  case  we  did  not  heed 
the  signal  to  stop.  Two  of  them  killed,  three  cap- 
tured and  one  escaped.  Dick  Durstine  is  here, 


1 8  2          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

badly  shot  through  the  right  lung.    Will  have  him 
sent  in  from  Sicklen  on  22  in  the  morning. 

"Stanton,  Conductor." 

The  next  morning  when  22  pulled  in  I  went 
down  and  there,  laid  out  on  a  litter  in  the  baggage 
car,  was  Dick  Durstine,  my  former  call  boy,  weak, 
pale,  and  just  living.  He  was  conscious,  and 
when  I  leaned  over  him  his  eyes  glistened  for  a 
minute,  he  smiled  and  feebly  said : 

"Say,  Mister  Bates,  didn't  I  do  them  fellers  up 
in  good  shape  ?  When  I  gets  well  again  will  you 
gimme  back  my  job  so  I  can  learn  some  more 
about  the  tick  tick?  I'll  never  monkey  any  more, 
honest  to  God,  I  won't." 

A  queer  lump  came  in  my  throat  and  there  was 
a  suspicion  of  moisture  in  my  eyes  as  I  contem- 
plated this  brave  little  hero,  and  I  said : 

"God  bless  your  brave  little  heart,  Dick,  you 
can  have  anything  on  this  division." 

Mr.  Antwerp  had  appeared  and  was  visibly  af- 
fected. We  had  Dick  removed  to  the  company 
hospital,  and  then  for  some  days  he  lay  hovering 
between  life  and  death,  but  youth,  and  a  strong 
constitution  finally  won  out  and  he  began  to  mend. 

When  he  was  able  to  sit  up  I  heard  his  story. 
It  appeared  that  when  I  dismissed  him  he  laid 
around  the  place  for  a  day,  and  then  jumping  a 


Jacking  Up  an  Operator         183 

freight,  started  south.  At  Sicklen  he  had  been  put 
off  by  a  heartless  brakeman  and  had  started  to 
walk  to  Ashton.  It  was  evening  and  he  became 
tired.  After  walking  as  far  as  the  north  end  of 
the  cut  he  laid  down  and  went  to  sleep  behind  a 
pile  of  old  ties.  He  was  awakened  by  the  sound  of 
voices  near  by,  and  listening  intently,  he  learned 
that  the  men  were  outlaws  and  intended  to  hold  up 
the  flyer  that  night.  They  intended  to  flag  her 
down  as  she  entered  the  cut  and  do  the  business  in 
the  usual  smooth  manner.  In  case  she  wouldn't 
stop,  they  would  have  a  pile  of  ties  on  the  track 
that  would  soon  put  a  quietus  on  her  flight.  Poor 
little  Dick  was  horrified  and  stealing  quietly  away 
some  distance  he  stopped  and  cogitated.  Time 
was  becoming  precious.  How  was  he  to  send  a 
warning  ?  Oh !  if  he  could  only  get  into  a  tele- 
graph office !  Suddenly  an  idea  struck  him.  He 
went  a  little  farther  up  the  track,  and  shinning  up 
a  pole  he  took  his  heavy  jack-knife,  and  after  a 
hard  effort,  succeeded  in  cutting  two  wires.  An- 
other pole  was  climbed  and  only  one  wire  cut  from 
it.  With  this  strand  he  made  a  joint  so  that  the 
two  ends  of  the  despatcher's  wire  could  be  brought 
in  easy  contact.  Then  by  knocking  the  two  ends 
together  he  sent  the  warning.  His  cutting  of  the 
wire  had  made  a  peculiar  loud  twang  and  one  of 


1 84          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

the  outlaws  heard  it.  Becoming  suspicious,  he 
and  his  partner  started  up  the  track  to  investi- 
gate. They  came  upon  Dick,  kneeling  on  one 
knee,  engrossed  in  his  work,  and  without  one 
word  of  warning  shot  him  in  the  back.  They  left 
him  for  dead,  but  thank  God  he  did  not  die,  and 
to-day  he  is  on  a  road  that  before  many  years  will 
land  him  on  top  of  the  heap. 


CHAPTER  XX 

AN  EPISODE  OF  SENTIMENT 

THE  night  man  down  at  Bentonville  quit  rather 
suddenly  one  fall  morning,  and  as  I  had  no  im- 
mediate relief  in  prospect,  I  wired  the  chief  de- 
spatcher  of  the  division  south  of  me  to  send  me  a 
man  if  he  had  any  to  spare.  That  afternoon  I 
received  a  message  from  him  saying  he  had  sent 
Miss  Ellen  Ross  to  take  the  place.  I  still  had  a 
very  distinct  recollection  of  my  encounter  with 
Miss  Love,  and  I  \vasn't  overfond  of  women  op- 
erators anyway,  so  Miss  Ross's  welcome  to  my 
division  was  not  a  hearty  one.  She  was  the 
first  woman  I  had  ever  had  under  my  jurisdiction. 
I  was  at  the  office  quite  late  a  night  or  two  after 
this,  and  heard  some  of  her  work;  there  was  no 
use  denying  that  she  was  a  very  smooth  operator 
as  well  as  a  very  prompt  one.  Burke  said  he  had 
no  complaint  to  offer;  she  was  always  on  time, 
and  I  must  confess  I  felt  much  chagrined.  I 
wanted  a  chance  to  discharge  her,  but  it  didn't 
appear  to  materialize.  But  I  was  a  patient  waiter 


1 86          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

and  one  morning  about  three  weeks  later  I  came 
into  the  office  and  on  looking  over  the  delay  sheet 
I  saw  the  following  entry  in  the  delay  column : 

"No.  1 8  delayed  fifty  minutes,  account  not  be- 
ing able  to  raise  the  operator  at  Bentonville  in  that 
time;  as  an  explanation,  operator  says  she  was 
over  at  the  hotel  getting  her  lunch." 

Evidently  Miss  Ross  had  little  ingenuity  in  the 
line  of  excuses  or  she  would  never  have  offered 
such  a  threadbare  one  as  that.  I  wanted  the 
chance  to  annihilate  her  and  here  it  was.  I  called 
up  Bentonville  and  asked  if  Miss  Ross  was  there. 
She  was,  and  I  said,  "Isn't  it  possible  for  you  to 
invent  a  better  excuse  than  'lunch'  for  your  failure 
to  answer  last  night,  or  this  morning  rather?" 

She  drummed  on  the  key  for  a  moment  and 
then  said  if  I  didn't  like  that  excuse  I  knew  what 
I  could  do.  I  caught  my  breath  at  her  audacity 
and  then  "did."  I  sent  her  time  to  her  on  No.  21, 
and  a  man  to  take  her  place.  I  then  dismissed  the 
matter  from  my  mind  and  supposed  that  I  had 
heard  the  last  of  Miss  Ross.  I  never  was  very 
well  acquainted  with  the  female  sex  or  I  would 
not  have  dismissed  the  matter  with  such  compla- 
cency. 

A  day  or  two  after  this  I  was  sitting  in  the  di- 


An  Episode  of  Sentiment        187 

vision  superintendent's  office,  he  being  out  on  the 
road,  and  I  heard  a  voice  say : 

"Is  this  Mr.  Bates?"  I  had  not  heard  anyone 
come  in  and  I  glanced  up  and  answered,  "Yes." 
I  saw  before  me  a  young  woman  of  an  air  and 
appearance  that  fairly  took  my  breath  away.  I 
immediately  arose  to  my  feet  and  with  all  possible 
deference  invited  her  to  take  a  seat.  I  supposed 
she  was  the  wife  of  some  of  the  officials  and 
wanted  a  pass.  In  response  to  my  inquiry  as  to 
what  could  I  do  for  her  she  said,  timidly : 

"I  am  Miss  Ross,  lately  night  operator  at  Ben- 
tonville." 

Her  answer  put  me  more  off  my  ease  than  ever, 
but  the  discipline  of  the  road  had  to  be  maintained 
at  any  cost ;  so  as  soon  as  I  could,  I  put  on  my  se- 
verest look  and  sternly  said,  "Well !"  She  smiled 
slightly  in  a  way  that  made  me  doubt  if  she  were 
much  impressed  by  my  display  of  rigor;  and  an- 
swered, "I  came  to  see  if  you  wouldn't  take  me 
back.  I  am  sure  I  didn't  mean  to  offend  the  other 
night.  I  have  been  an  operator  for  nearly  four 
years  and  I  have  never  had  the  least  bit  of  trouble 
before.  You  have  no  fault  to  find  with  my  work 
I  am  sure;  and  I  promise  to  be  very  careful  to 
never  offend  again.  Won't  you  please  take  me 
back?" 


1 88          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

Gee !  but  she  did  look  pretty  and  her  big  black 
eyes  were  shining  like  bright  stars.  If  she  had 
only  known  it  I  was  ready  by  this  time  to  have 
given  her  the  best  job  on  the  whole  division,  even 
my  own,  but  I  wasn't  going  to  give  up  without 
a  show  of  resistance  and  I  said : 

"Humph!  Well  let's  see!"  Then  I  rang  my 
bell  and  told  the  boy  to  get  me  the  train  sheet  of 
the  sixteenth.  I  looked  very  stern  and  very  wise 
as  I  read  the  delay  report  to  her. 

"That,  Miss  Ross,  is  a  very  serious  offense.  A 
delay  of  fifty  minutes  to  any  train  is  bad  enough, 
but  when  it  happens  to  a  through  freight  it  is  the 
worst  possible.  Then  you  say  you  were  at  the 
hotel  for  lunch.  The  order  book  shows  that  the  de- 
spatcher  called  you  from  two  A.  M.  until  two-fifty 
A.  M.  Isn't  that  rather  an  unearthly  hour  to  be 
going  out  to  lunch  ?  My  recollection  of  the  Ben- 
tonville  station  is  that  it  is  a  mile  from  the  excuse 
of  a  hotel  in  the  place.  Really,  I  am  very  sorry 
but  I  don't  see  how  anything  can  be  done." 

Discipline  was  being  maintained,  you  see,  in 
great  shape,  but  all  the  time  I  was  delivering  my 
little  speech  I  was  feeling  like  a  big  red-headed 
hypocrite.  Miss  Ross  looked  up  at  me  with  those 
beautiful  eyes;  then  two  big  tears  made  their  ap- 
pearance on  the  scene,  and  she  sobbed  out ; 


An   Episode  of  Sentiment        189 

"Well,  I  know  I  told  a  fib  when  I  made  that 
excuse,  but  the  despatcher  was  so  sharp  and  I  was 
so  scared  when  he  said  he  had  been  calling  me 
for  fifty  minutes,  that  I  told  him  the  first  thing 
that  came  into  my  mind.  Then,  the  next  day  I 
was  angry  at  you,  because  I  thought  you  were 
charring  me,  as  I  was  the  only  woman  on  the  line, 
and  I  suppose  I  was  rather  impudent.  But  do  you 
think  it  is  fair  to  discharge  me  for  the  same  thing 
that  you  only  gave  Mr.  Ferral  fifteen  days  for? 
Are  you  not  doing  it  simply  because  I  am  a 
woman  ?" 

I  never  could  stand  a  woman's  tears,  especially 
a  pretty  one,  and  when  she  cited  the  case  of 
Ferral,  I  realized  that  I  had  lost  my  game.  I  let 
myself  down  as  easily  as  I  could  and  that  night 
Miss  Ross  went  back  to  work  at  Bentonville,  and 
the  man  there  was  put  on  the  waiting  list. 

It  was  very  funny  after  this  how  many  times 
I  had  to  run  down  to  Bentonville.  That  Sandia 
branch  line  had  to  be  inspected;  the  switch  board 
had  to  be  replaced  by  a  new  one  in  "BN"  office; 
wires  had  to  be  changed,  a  new  ground  put  in,  and 
many  other  things  done,  and  always  I  had  to  go 
myself  to  see  that  the  work  was  done  properly. 
The  agent  at  Bentonville  came,  before  very  long, 
to  smile  in  a  very  knowing  way  whenever  I 


1 90          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

jumped  off  the  train;  Mr.  Antwerp  had  a  pecu- 
liarly wise  look  in  his  eye  when  I  mentioned 
anything  about  Bentonville,  but  I  didn't  mind  it. 
I  was  in  love  with  the  sweet  little  girl,  and  was 
walking  on  the  clouds.  If  I  hadn't  been  I  would 
have  seen  that  my  cake  was  all  dough  in  that 
quarter.  I  might  have  noticed  that  big  Dan  For- 
bush  had  an  amused  look  in  his  eye  when  I  went 
off  on  one  of  these  trips.  If  I  had  watched  the 
mail  I  might  have  seen  numerous  little  billets  com- 
ing daily  from  Bentonville,  addressed  in  a  neat 
round  hand  to  "Mr.  Dan  Forbush."  But  I  didn't, 
I  kept  right  on  in  my  mad  career,  and  one  day 
when  my  courage  was  high  I  offered  my  hand  and 
my  heart  to  Miss  Ross.  She  refused  and  told  me 
that  while  she  was  honored  by  my  proposal,  she 
had  been  engaged  to  Mr.  Forbush  for  two  years, 
having  known  him  down  on  the  "Sunset"  before 
he  came  to  our  road.  I  took  my  defeat  as  philo- 
sophically as  I  could  and  the  next  spring  she  left 
Bentonville  for  good,  and  Dan  took  a  three  weeks' 
leave.  When  he  came  back  he  brought  sweet 
Ellen  as  his  bride.  One  evening  not  long  after 
that  I  was  calling  there,  when  Mrs.  Forbush 
looked  up  at  me  very  naively  and  said : 

"Mr.  Bates,  did  I  pay  you  back  for  discharging 
me?" 


'Are  you  not  doing  it  just  because  I  am  a  woman  ? 

(page  189.) 


An  Episode  of  Sentiment        191 

There's  no  doubt  about  it,  she  did,  and  I  felt 
it.  She  was  the  third  girl  to  throw  me  over,  and 
I  determined  to  give  up  the  business  and  go  for  a 
soldier.  I  stuck  it  out  there  till  fall  and  then  re- 
signed for  all  time. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  MILITARY  OPERATOR A  FAKE  REPORT  THAT 

NEARLY  CAUSED  TROUBLE 

THE  railroad  and  commercial  telegraphers  are 
well  known  to  the  general  public,  because  they  are 
thrown  daily  in  contact  with  them,  but  there  is 
still  another  class  in  the  profession,  which,  while 
not  being  so  well  known  are,  in  their  way,  just  as 
important  in  their  acts  and  deeds.  I  refer  to  the 
military  telegrapher.  His  work  does  not  often 
carry  him  within  the  environments  of  civilization ; 
his  instruments  are  not  of  the  beautiful  Bunnell 
pattern,  placed  on  polished  glass  partitioned  ta- 
bles ;  his  task  is  a  very  hard  one  and  yet  he  does  it 
without  a  grumble.  His  sphere  of  duty  is  out  at 
the  extreme  edge  of  advancing  civilization.  You 
will  find  him  along  the  Rio  Grande  frontier ;  out 
on  the  sun-baked  deserts  of  New  Mexico  and  Ari- 
zona; up  in  the  Bad  Lands  of  Montana,  and  the 
snow-capped  mountains  of  the  Rockies.  A  few 
of  them  you  will  find  in  nice  offices  at  some 
department  headquarters  or  in  the  war  office  in 
192 


The  Military  Operator          193 

Washington,  but  such  places  are  generally  given 
to  men  who  have  grown  old  and  gray  in  the  serv- 
ice. His  office?  Any  old  place  he  can  plant  his 
instruments,  many  times  a  tent  with  a  cracker 
box  for  a  table ;  a  chair  would  be  an  unheard-of 
luxury.  His  pay  ?  Thirteen  big  round  American 
dollars  per  month.  His  rank  and  title?  Hold 
your  breath  while  I  tell  you.  Private,  United 
States  Army.  Great,  isn't  it  ?  Many  times  a  de- 
tail to  one  of  the  frontier  points  means  farewell  to 
your  friends  as  long  as  the  tour  lasts. 

When  I  left  the  railroad  business  I  journeyed 
out  westward  to  Fort  Hayes,  Kansas,  and  held  up 
my  right  hand  and  swore  all  manner  of  oaths 
to  support  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States ; 
obey  the  orders  of  the  President  of  the  United 
States  and  all  superior  officers ;  to  accept  the  pay 
and  allowances  as  made  by  a  generous  (God  save 
the  word)  Congress  for  the  period  of  five  years. 
Thus  did  I  become  a  soldier  and  a  "dough  boy" 
because  I  went  to  the  infantry  arm  of  the  service. 
I've  stuck  to  the  business  ever  since. 

I  supposed  when  I  went  into  the  army  that  my 
connection  with  wires  and  telegraph  instruments 
was  entirely  finished.  I  had  worked  at  the  busi- 
ness long  and  faithfully  and  was  in  a  state  of  mind 
that  I  thought  I  had  had  enough.  That's  very 


1 94          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

good  in  theory,  but  powerful  poor  in  practice,  be- 
cause I  hadn't  been  soldiering  a  month  before  a 
feeling  of  home-sickness  for  my  old  love  came 
over  me ;  in  fact  to  this  day  I  never  see  a  railroad 
but  what  I  want  to  go  up  in  the  despatcher's  of- 
fice and  sit  down  and  take  a  "trick."  But  there 
were  commissions  to  be  had  from  the  ranks  of  the 
army  and  I  wanted  one,  so  I  hung  on  and  did  my 
duty  as  best  I  could. 

The  stay  at  Fort  Hayes  was  a  very  peaceful  and 
serene  one ;  I  did  no  telegraphing  there  for  a  year, 
and  then  we  were  ordered  to  Fort  Clark,  Texas. 
When  I  quit  the  commercial  business  I  had  almost 
taken  an  oath  never  to  go  back  to  Texas,  but  I 
couldn't  help  it  in  this  case. 

Fort  Clark  is  one  hundred  and  thirty  miles  due 
west  of  dear  old  San  Antonio,  and  situated  nine 
miles  from  the  railroad.  When  my  company  ar- 
rived, there  was  no  telegraphic  communication 
with  the  outside  world  and  all  telegrams  had  to  be 
sent  by  courier  to  Spofford  Junction,  for  trans- 
mission. After  having  been  stationed  there  for 
about  eight  months  I  was  sent  for  by  the  com- 
manding officer  and  told  to  take  charge  of  a  party 
and  build  a  telegraph  line  over  to  the  railroad. 
The  poles  had  been  set  by  a  detachment  of  the 
3rd  Cavalry  and  in  five  days'  time  I  had  strung 


The  Military  Operator          195 

the  wire.  Being  the  only  operator  in  the  post  I 
was  placed  in  charge  of  the  office  and  relieved 
from  all  duty.  It  was  a  perfect  snap ;  no  drills,  no 
guards,  no  parades,  nothing  but  just  work  the 
wire  and  plenty  of  time  to  devote  to  my  studies. 

In  December,  1890,  the  Sioux  Indians  again 
broke  loose  from  their  reservations  at  Pine  Ridge 
and  all  of  the  available  men  of  the  pitifully  small, 
but  gallant,  United  States  army  were  hurriedly 
rushed  northwards  to  give  them  a  smash  that 
would  be  lasting  and  convincing.  There  was  the 
7th  Cavalry,  Custer's  old  command,  the  6th  and 
9th  Cavalry,  the  roth,  2nd,  and  i/th  Infantry,  the 
late  lamented  and  gallant  Capron's  flying  battery 
of  artillery,  besides  others — General  Miles  per- 
sonally assumed  command,  and  the  campaign  was 
short,  sharp,  brilliant  and  decisive.  The  Indians 
were  lambasted  into  a  semblance  of  order,  and 
that  personification  of  deviltry,  Sitting  Bull,  given 
his  transportation  to  the  happy  hunting  grounds, 
but  not  before  a  score  or  more  of  brave  officers  and 
men  had  passes  to  their  long  reckoning.  Captain 
George  Wallace,  of  the  7th  Cavalry;  Lieutenant 
Mann,  of  the  same  regiment,  and  Lieutenant  Ned 
Casey,  of  the  22nd  Infantry,  left  places  in  the 
ranks  of  the  officers  that  were  hard  to  fill. 

My  regiment,  the  i8th  Infantry,  was  too  far 


196          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

away  to  go,  and  besides,  the  Rio  Grande  frontier, 
with  Senor  Garza  and  his  band  of  cut-throats 
prowling  around  loose,  could  not  be  left  unpro- 
tected. There  would  be  too  big  a  howl  from  the 
Texans  if  that  occurred. 

During  all  these  trying  times  my  telegraph  of- 
fice was  naturally  the  center  of  interest,  and  I  had 
made  an  arrangement  with  the  chief  operator  at 
San  Antonio  to  send  me  bulletins  of  any  impor- 
tant news.  I  always  made  two  copies,  posting  one 
on  the  bulletin  board  in  front  of  my  office,  and  de- 
livering the  other  to  the  colonel  in  person. 

Soldiers  are  very  loquacious  as  a  rule  and  give 
them  a  thread  upon  which  to  hang  an  argument, 
and  in  a  minute  a  free  silver,  demo-popocrat  con- 
vention would  sound  tame  in  comparison.  Go 
into  a  squad-room  at  any  time  the  men  are  off 
duty,  and  you  can  have  a  discussion  on  almost  any 
old  subject  from  the  result  of  the  coming  prize 
fight  to  the  deepest  question  of  the  bible  and  the- 
ology. Many  times  the  argument  will  become  so 
warm  between  Privates  "Hicky"  Flynn  and  "Pie 
Faced"  Sullivan  that  theology  will  be  settled  a  la 
Queensbury  out  behind  the  wash-house.  Among 
soldiers  this  argumentative  spirit  is  called  "chew- 
ing the  rag." 

One  morning  shortly  after  Wounded  Knee  with 


The  Military  Operator          197 

its  direful  results  had  been  fought,  I  thought  it 
would  be  a  great  joke  to  post  a  startling  bulletin, 
just  to  start  the  men's  tongues  a-wagging. 
So  I  wrote  the  following : 

"Bulletin 

"San  Antonio,  Texas,  12  |  26,  1890. 
"Reported  that  the  6th  and  9th  Cavalry  were 
ambuscaded  yesterday  by  Sioux  Indians  under 
Crazy  Horse,  and  completely  wiped  out  of  exist- 
ence. Custer's  Little  Big  Horn  massacre  out- 
done. Not  a  man  escaped." 

I  chuckled  with  fiendish  glee  as  I  posted  this  on 
the  bulletin  board  and  then  started  for  breakfast. 
I  thought  some  soldier  would  read  it,  tell  it  to  the 
men  of  his  company,  and  in  that  way  the  fun 
would  commence.  My  scheme  worked  to  perfec- 
tion, because  some  of  the  men  of  G  Company, 
(mine  was  D)  had  seen  me  stick  it  up  and  had 
come  post  haste  to  read.  I  started  the  ball  rolling 
in  my  own  company  and  in  about  a  minute  there 
were  fifty  men  around  me  all  jabbering  like  mag- 
pies as  to  the  result  of  this  awful  massacre.  Of 
course,  the  regiment  would  be  hurried  north  forth- 
with— no  other  regiment  could  do  the  work  of 
annihilation  so  well  as  the  i8th.  Oh!  no.  Of 
course  not ! 


198          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

Said  my  erstwhile  friend  and  bunkie  "Hickey" 
Flynn :  "Av  coorse,  Moiles  will  be  after  sendin' 
a  message  to  Lazelle  to  bring  the  Ateenth  fut  up  at 
once,  and  thin  the  smashin'  we  will  be  after  givin' 
them  rid  divils  will  make  a  wake  look  sick." 

"Aw  cum  off,  Hickey,"  said  Sullivan,  "phat  the 
divil  doesyez  knowav  foightin'  injuns?  Phat  were 
ye  over  in  the  auld  sod  ?  Nathin'  but  a  turf  dig- 
ger. Phat  were  ye  here  before  ye  'listed  ?  Dom  ye, 
I  think  ye  belong  to  the  Clan  na  Gael  and  helped 
to  murther  poor  Doc  Cronin,  bad  cess  to  ye." 

A  display  of  authority  on  the  part  of  the  top 
sergeant  prevented  a  clash  and  the  jaw-breaking 
contest  proceeded.  By  this  time  the  news  had 
spread  and  the  entire  garrison  were  talking.  Just 
as  I  was  about  to  tell  them  that  it  was  a  fake  pure 
and  simple,  I  happened  to  glance  towards  my  of- 
fice, and  Holy  Smoke !  there  was  my  captain  stand- 
ing on  his  tiptoes  (he  was  only  five  feet  four) 
reading  that  confounded  bulletin.  I  hadn't 
counted  on  any  of  the  officers  reading  it.  Gener- 
ally they  didn't  get  up  until  eight  o'clock  and  by 
that  time  I  would  have  destroyed  the  fake  report. 
The  officers'  club  was  in  the  same  building  as 
my  office  and  the  captain  had  come  down  early, 
evidently  to  get  a — to  read  the  morning  paper 
(which  came  at  4  p.  M.)  and  his  eye  lighted  on 


The  Military  Operator          199 

my  bulletin.  I  saw  him  read  it  carefully,  and  then 
reaching  up  he  tore  it  from  the  board  and  as  quick 
as  his  little  legs  would  carry  him,  he  made  a  bee 
line  for  the  commanding  officer's  quarters.  I 
knew  full  well  how  the  colonel  would  regard  that 
bulletin  when  he  found  out  it  was  a  fake.  I  was 
able  to  discern  a  summary  court-martial  in  my 
mind's  eye,  and  that  would  knock  my  chances  for 
a  commission  sky- highwards — because  a  man's 
military  record  must  be  absolutely  spotless  when 
he  appears  for  examination.  What  was  I  to  do? 
Just  then  I  saw  the  captain  go  up  the  colonel's 
steps,  ring  the  bell,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  ad- 
mitted. I  felt  that  my  corpse  was  laid  out  right 
then  and  there  and  the  wake  was  about  to  begin. 

A  few  moments  later  the  commanding  officer's 
orderly  came  in,  and  looking  around  for  a  min- 
ute, caught  sight  of  me  and  said : 

"Corporal,  the  commanding  officer  wants  to 
see  you  at  his  quarters  at  once,"  and  out  he  went. 
"Start  the  band  to  playing  the  'Dead  March  in 
Saul,'  "  thought  I,  "because  this  is  the  beginning 
of  a  funeral  procession  in  which  I  am  to  play  the 
leading  part."  I  walked  as  slowly  as  I  could  and 
not  appear  lagging,  but  I  arrived  at  my  crematory 
all  too  soon.  I  rapped  on  the  door  and  in  tones 
that  made  me  shiver,  was  bidden  by  the  old  man  to 


200          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

come  in.  The  colonel  was  standing  in  the  middle 
of  his  parlor,  wrapped  in  a  gaudy  dressing  gown, 
and  in  his  hand  he  held  my  mangled  bulletin. 
Right  at  that  minute  I  wished  I  had  never  heard 
a  telegraph  instrument  click. 

"Corporal,"  said  the  colonel,  "what  time  did 
you  receive  this  bulletin?" 

"About  six-fifteen,  sir,  immediately  after  rev- 
eille," I  replied  with  a  face  as  expressionless  as  a 
mummy's. 

"Why  did  you  not  bring  it  to  me  direct  as  you 
have  heretofore  done  ?" 

"Well,  sir,  I  didn't  think  you  were  awake  yet, 
and  I  did  not  want  to  disturb  you." 

"Have  you  any  later  news,  corporal?" 

"No  sir,  none,  but  I  haven't  been  back  to  the 
office  since,  sir."  Gee !  but  that  room  was  becom- 
ing warm ! 

"Are  you  certain  as  to  the  truth  of  this  awful 
report  ?" 

"It  is  probably  as  authentic  as  a  great  many 
stories  that  are  started  during  times  like  these — 
that  is  all  I  know  of  it,  sir."  (Lord  forgive  me.) 

"It  seems  almost  too  horrible  to  be  true,  and  yet, 
one  cannot  tell  about  those  Sioux.  They're  a  bad 
lot — a  devilish  bad  lot" — this  to  my  captain — and 
then  to  me :  "You  go  back  to  your  office,  corpo- 


The  Military  Operator          201 

ral,  and  remain  very  close  until  you  have  a  denial 
or  a  confirmation  of  this  story  and  bring  any  news 
you  may  receive  to  me  instanter.  That's  all  cor- 
poral." 

The  "corporal"  needed  no  second  dismissal,  and 
saluting  I  quickly  got  out  of  an  atmosphere  that 
was  far  from  chilly  to  me. 

Now,  by  my  cussed  propensity  for  joking,  I 
had  involved  myself  in  this  mess,  and  there  was 
but  one  way  out  of  it,  and  that  was  to  brazen  it 
out  for  a  while  longer  and  then  post  a  denial  of 
the  supposed  awful  rumor.  But  the  denial  must 
come  over  the  wire,  so  when  I  reached  my  office 
I  called  up  Spofford  and  told  old  man  Livingston 
what  I  had  done  and  what  I  wanted  him  to  do 
for  me,  and  in  about  half  an  hour  he  sent  me  a 
"bulletin"  saying  that  the  previous  report  had  hap- 
pily proved  unfounded  and  the  6th  and  Qth  Cav- 
alry were  all  right.  This  message  I  took  at  once 
to  the  colonel  and  as  he  read  it  he  heaved  a  big 
sigh  of  relief,  but  he  dismissed  me  with  a  very  pe- 
culiar look  in  his  eye. 

The  next  evening  as  I  was  passing  the  colonel's 
quarters  on  my  way  to  deliver  a  message  to  the 
hospital,  I  heard  him  remark  to  another  officer, 
"Major,  don't  you  think  it  is  strange  that  the  pa- 
pers received  to-day  make  no  mention  of  that 


202          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

frightful  report  received  here  yesterday  morning 
relative  to  the  supposed  massacre  of  the  6th  and 
9th  Cavalry?" 

No,  the  major  didn't  think  it  a  bit  strange. 
Maybe  he  knew  that  newspaper  stories  should  be 
taken  cum  grano  salis,  and  then  maybe  he  knew 
me. 

There  were  no  more  ''fake  reports"  from  that 
office. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

PRIVATE   DENNIS   HOGAN,    HERO 

IT  WAS  while  I  was  sitting  around  a  barrack- 
room  fire  that  I  picked  up  the  following  story. 
There  were  a  number  of  old  soldiers  in  my  com- 
pany— men  who  had  served  twenty-five  years  in 
the  army — and  their  fund  of  anecdote  and  excite- 
ment was  of  the  largest  size. 

On  Thanksgiving  Day,  187 — ,  Private  Dennis 
Hogan,  Company  B,  29th  United  States  Infantry, 
the  telegraph  operator  at  Fort  Flint,  Montana,  sat 
in  his  dingy  little  "two  by  four"  office  in  the  head- 
quarter building,  communing  with  himself  and 
cussing  any  force  of  circumstances  that  made  him 
a  soldier.  The  instruments  were  quiet,  a  good 
Thanksgiving  dinner  had  been  enjoyed  and  now 
the  smoke  from  his  old  "T.  D."  pipe  curled  in 
graceful  rings  around  his  red  head. 

Denny  was  a  smashing  good  operator  and  some 
eighteen  months  before  he  had  landed  in  St.  Louis 
dead  broke.  All  the  offices  and  railroads  were 
203 


204         Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

full  and  nary  a  place  did  he  get  While  walking 
up  Pine  street  one  morning  his  eye  fell  foul  of  a 
sign: — 

"Wanted,  able-bodied,  unmarried  men,  between 
the  ages  of  twenty-one  and  thirty-five,  for  ser- 
vice in  the  United  States  Army." 

In  his  mind's  eye  he  sized  himself  up  and  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  would  fill  all  the  require- 
ments. Now,  he  hadn't  any  great  hankering  for 
soldiering,  but  he  didn't  have  a  copper  to  his  name 
and  as  empty  stomachs  stand  not  on  ceremony,  in 
he  went  and  after  being  catechized  by  the  recruit- 
ing sergeant,  he  was  pounded  for  thirty  minutes  by 
the  examining  surgeon,  pronounced  as  sound  as  a 
dollar,  and  then  sworn  in  "to  serve  Uncle  Sam 
honestly  and  faithfully  for  five  years.  So  help 
me  God."  The  space  of  time  necessary  to  trans- 
form a  man  from  a  civilian  to  a  soldier  is  of  a  very 
short  duration,  and  almost  before  he  knew  it  he 
was  dressed  in  the  plain  blue  of  the  soldier  of  the 
Republic.  He  was  assigned  to  B  company  of  the 
29th  United  States  Infantry  stationed  at  Fort 
Flint,  Montana.  The  experience  was  new  and 
novel  to  him,  and  the  three  months  recruit  train- 
ing well  nigh  wore  him  out,  but  he  stuck  to  it,  and 
some  two  months  after  he  had  been  returned  to 
duty,  he  was  detailed  as  telegraph  operator  vice 


Private  Dennis  Hogan,  Hero      205 

Adams  of  G  Company,  discharged.     There  he  had 
remained  since. 

At  four  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  in  question 
Denny  was  aroused  from  his  reverie  by  the 
sounder  opening  up  and  calling  "FN"  like  blue 
blazes.  He  answered  and  this  is  what  he  took : 

"DEPARTMENT  HEADQUARTERS  ST.  PAUL,  MINN. 

"November  26th,  187 — 
"COMMANDING  OFFICER, 

"Fort  Flint,  Montana. 

"Sioux  Indians  out.  Prepare  your  command 
for  instant  field  service.  Thirty  days'  rations; 
two  hundred  rounds  ammunition  per  man.  Wire 
when  ready. 

"By  command  of  Major  General  Wherry. 
"(Signed)  SMITH, 

"Assistant  Adjutant-General." 

Denny  was  the  messenger  boy  as  well  as  opera- 
tor and  without  waiting  to  make  an  impression 
copy,  he  grabbed  his  hat  and  flew  down  the  line  to 
the  colonel's  quarters.  That  worthy  was  enter- 
taining a  party  at  dinner,  and  was  about  to  give 
Hogan  fits  for  bringing  the  message  to  him  in- 
stead of  to  the  post  adjutant ;  but  a  glance  at  the 
contents  changed  things  and  in  a  moment  all  was 
bustle  and  confusion. 

For  weeks  the  premonitory  signs  of  this  out- 


206          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

break  had  been  plainly  visible,  but  true  to  the  red- 
tape  conditions,  the  army  could  not  move  until 
some  overt  act  had  been  committed.  The  gener- 
ous interior  department  had  supplied  the  Indians 
with  arms  and  ammunition  and  then  Air.  Red 
Devil  under  that  prince  of  fiends  incarnate,  Sit- 
ting Bull,  started  on  his  campaign  of  plunder  and 
pillage. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  night  Colonel  Clarke  wired 
his  chief  that  his  command  was  ready,  and  at  mid- 
night he  received  orders  to  proceed  the  next  morn- 
ing at  daylight,  by  forced  marches  up  to  the  junc- 
tion of  the  forks  of  the  Red  Bud,  and  take  position 
there  to  intercept  the  Indians  should  they  attempt 
to  cross.  Two  regiments  from  the  more  northern 
posts  were  due  to  reach  there  at  the  same  time,  and 
the  combined  strength  of  the  three  commands  was 
supposed  to  be  sufficient  to  drive  back  any  body  of 
Indians.  There  was  little  sleep  in  Fort  Flint  that 
night. 

Now,  Hogan  wasn't  much  of  a  success  as  a  gar- 
rison soldier,  but  when  a  chance  for  a  genuine 
fight  presented  itself,  all  the  Irish  blood  in  his  na- 
ture came  to  the  surface,  and  after  much  pleading 
and  begging,  the  adjutant  allowed  him  to  join  his 
company,  detailing  Jones  of  D  Company  as  opera- 
tor in  his  stead.  Jones  wasn't  as  good  an  opera- 


Private  Dennis  Hogan,  Hero     207 

tor  by  far  as  Denny,  but  in  a  pinch  he  could  do  the 
work,  and  besides,  he  had  just  come  out  of  the 
hospital  and  was  unable  to  stand  the  rigors  attend- 
ant upon  a  winter  campaign  in  Montana. 

Denny  went  to  his  company  quarters  in  high 
glee  and  soon  had  his  kit  all  packed.  Some  weeks 
before  he  had  been  out  repairing  the  line  and  when 
he  returned  to  the  post  he  had  left  a  small  pocket 
instrument  and  a  few  feet  of  office  wire  in  his 
haversack.  He  saw  these  things  and  was  about 
to  remove  them,  when  something  impelled  him  to 
take  them  along.  What  this  was  no  one  ever 
knew.  Perhaps  premonition. 

The  next  morning  just  as  the  first  dim  shadows 
of  early  dawn  stole  over  the  snow-clad  earth,  the 
gallant  old  29th,  five  hundred  strong,  swung  out 
of  Fort  Flint,  on  its  long  tramp.  From  out  of 
half-closed  blinds  on  the  officer's  line  gazed  many 
a  tear-stained  face,  and  up  on  "Soapsuds  Row" 
many  an  honest-hearted  laundress  was  bemoaning 
the  fates  that  parted  her  from  her  "ould  mon." 

The  weather  turned  bitter  cold  and  after  seven 
days  of  the  hardest  kind  of  marching  they  reached 
and  crossed  the  Red  Bud  just  below  the  junction 
of  the  two  forks.  A  strong  position  was  taken 
and  every  disposition  made  to  prevent  surprise. 


ao8         Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

The  expected  re-enforcement  would  surely  come 
soon  and  then  all  would  be  safe. 

The  next  day  dawned  and  passed,  but  not  a  sign 
of  that  re-enforcement.  That  night  queer  looking 
red  glows  were  seen  at  stated  intervals  on  the  hori- 
zon— North,  West  and  East  on  the  north  side  of 
the  river,  and  to  the  South  on  the  other  bank  did 
they  gleam  and  glow.  Colonel  Clarke  was  old 
and  tried  in  Indian  warfare  and  well  did  he  know 
what  those  fires  meant — Indians — and  lots  of 
them  all  around  his  command.  His  hope  now 
was  that  the  two  northern  regiments  would  strike 
them  in  the  rear  while  he  smashed  them  in  front. 

The  next  morning,  first  one,  two,  three,  four, 
an  hundred,  a  thousand  figures  mounted  on  fleet 
footed  ponies  appeared  silhouetted  against  the 
clear  sky,  and  it  wasn't  long  before  that  little  com- 
mand of  sturdy  bluecoats  was  surrounded  by  a 
superior  force  of  the  wildest  red  devils  that  ever 
strode  a  horse  or  fired  a  Winchester  rifle.  Slowly 
they  drew  their  lines  closer  about  the  troops  like 
the  clinging  tentacles  of  some  monster  devilfish, 
and  about  eleven  o'clock,  Bang!  and  the  battle 
was  on. 

"Husband  your  fire,  men.  Don't  shoot  until 
you  have  taken  deliberate  aim,  and  can  see  the  ob- 


Private  Dennis  Hogan,  Hero      209 

ject  aimed  at,"  was  the  word  passed  along  the  line 
by  Colonel  Clarke. 

Behind  hastily  constructed  shelter  trenches  the 
soldiers  fought  off  that  encircling  band  of  Indians, 
with  a  desperation  and  valor  born  of  an  almost 
hopeless  situation.  Ever  and  anon,  from  across 
the  river  came  the  ping  of  a  Winchester  bullet, 
proving  that  retreat  was  cut  off  that  way.  The 
Indians  had  completely  marched  around  them. 

Where  was  the  re-enforcement?  Why  didn't 
it  come  ?  Was  this  to  be  another  Little  Big  Horn, 
and  were  these  brave  men  to  be  massacred  like  the 
gallant  7th  Cavalry  under  Custer  ?  As  long  as  his 
ammunition  held  out  Colonel  Clarke  knew  he 
could  stand  them  off,  but  after  three  days  of  hard 
fighting,  resulting  in  the  loss  of  many  brave  men, 
the  situation  was  becoming  desperate.  Fires  could 
not  be  lighted  and  more  than  one  brave  fellow 
went  to  kingdom  come  in  filling  the  canteens  at 
the  river's  bank.  Most  of  the  animals  had  been 
shot,  many  of  them  being  used  for  breastworks. 

Colonel  Clarke  was  inspecting  his  lines  on  the 
early  evening  of  the  third  day,  and  had  about 
made  up  his  mind  to  ask  for  a  volunteer  to  try  and 
get  beyond  the  Indian  lines  and  carry  the  news  to 
Fort  Scott,  sixty  miles  away,  to  call  for  re-en- 
forcements. Six  troops  of  the  nth  Cavalry  were 


2 1  o          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

stationed  there  under  his  old  friend  and  class- 
mate, Colonel  Foster.  He  knew  the  character  of 
the  regular  army  chaps  well  enough  to  be  certain 
they  would  come  to  his  assistance,  if  it  were  a  pos- 
sible thing.  If  all  went  well  with  his  courier  in 
three  days'  time  they  would  be  there. 

The  word  was  passed  along  the  line  and  in  a 
few  seconds  he  had  any  number  of  officers  and 
men  who  were  willing  and  ready  to  take  the  ride. 
Just  as  the  colonel  had  decided  to  send  ist  Lieu- 
tenant Jarvis  on  this  perilous  trip,  Hogan  ap- 
peared before  him,  saluting  with  military  precision, 
and  said  with  a  broad  Irish  brogue : — 

"Axin'  yer  pardin'  kurnel,  but  Oi  think  Oi  kin 
tell  ye  a  betther  way.  The  telegraph  loine  from 
Scott  to  Kearney  runs  just  twenty-foive  moiles 
beyant  here  to  the  southards.  Up  at  the  end  of 
our  loines  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  is  a  deep 
ravine.  If  Oi  kin  get  across  with  a  good  horse 
and  slip  through  the  Indian  loines  on  the  other 
soide,  I  can,  by  hard  roidin'  reach  this  loine  in  two 
or  three  hours.  I  have  a  pocket  instrument  wid 
me  and  can  cut  in  and  ask  for  re-enforcements 
from  Fort  Scott.  If  the  loine  is  down  I  can  con- 
tinue on  to  the  post,  and  make  as  quick  time  as 
any  of  the  officers ;  if  it  is  up  it  will  be  a  matther 
of  a  short  toime  before  we  are  pulled  out  of  this 


Private  Dennis  Hogan,  Hero     211 

hole.  Plaze  let  me  thry  it  kurnel.  Lieutenant 
Jarvis  has  a  wife  and  two  children,  and  his  loss 
would  be  greatly  felt,  whoile  I — I — well  I  haven't 
any  wan,  sir,  and  besoides,  I'm  an  Irishman,  and 
you  know,  kurnel,  an  Irishman  is  a  fool  for  luck." 
This  last  was  said  with  a  broad  grin. 

Colonel  Clarke  was  somewhat  amazed  at  this 
speech,  but  he  studied  reflectively,  with  knitted 
brows  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "All  right, 
Hogan,  I'll  let  you  try  it.  Take  my  horse  and 
start  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Do  your 
best,  my  man,  do  your  best;  the  lives  of  the  re- 
mainder of  this  command  depend  on  your  efforts. 
God  be  with  you." 

"If  I  fail  kurnel,  it  will  be  because  I'm  dead, 
sir." 

Shortly  before  three  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
Denny  made  ready  for  his  perilous  ride.  The 
horse's  hoofs  were  carefully  padded,  ammunition 
and  revolver  looked  after,  the  pocket  instrument 
fastened  around  his  neck  by  the  wire,  so  if  any 
accident  happened  to  the  horse  he  would  not  be 
unnecessarily  delayed,  and  all  was  ready.  He 
gave  his  old  bunkie  a  farewell  silent  clasp  of  the 
hand  and  then  started  on  his  ride  that  meant  life 
or  death  to  his  comrades.  The  horse  was  a  mag- 
nificent Kentuckian  and  seemed  to  know  what  was 


2 1 2          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

required  of  him.  Carefully  and  slowly  Hogan 
pushed  his  way  to  the  place  opposite  the  ravine, 
and  then  giving  his  mount  a  light  touch  with  the 
spurs,  he  took  to  the  cold  water.  The  stream  was 
filled  with  floating  ice  but  was  only  about  fifty 
yards  wide  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  safely 
over,  and  climbing  up  the  other  bank  through  the 
ravine.  Finally,  the  end  was  reached  and  he  was 
on  high  ground.  Resting  a  minute  to  see  if  all 
was  well,  he  -started.  So  far,  so  good,  he  was 
beyond  the  Indian  lines.  He  was  congratulating 
himself  on  the  promised  success  of  his  mission 
when  all  at  once,  directly  in  front  of  him  he  saw 
the  dim  shadowy  outlines  of  a  mounted  Indian. 
Quick  as  a  flash  Denny  pulled  his  revolver  and 
another  Indian  was  soon  in  the  happy  hunting 
ground.  This  caused  a  general  alarm  and  Hogan 
knew  he  was  in  for  it.  Putting  his  spurs  deep  in 
his  horse's  flanks  away  he  went  with  the  speed  of 
the  wind.  A  perfect  swarm  of  Indians  came  after 
him,  yelling  like  fiends  and  shooting  like  demons. 
On !  on !  he  sped,  seemingly  bearing  a  charmed 
life  because  bullets  whizzed  by  him  like  hail.  He 
was  not  idle,  and  when  the  opportunity  presented 
itself  his  revolver  spoke  and  more  than  one  Indian 
pony  was  made  riderless  thereby. 

Suddenly  he  felt  a  sharp  stinging  pain  in  his 


Private  Dennis  Hogan,  Hero      213 

right  shoulder,  and  but  for  a  convulsive  grasp  of 
the  pommel  with  his  bridle  hand  he  would  have 
pitched  headlong  to  the  earth. 

No,  by  God!  he  couldn't  fail  now.  He  must 
succeed,  the  lives  of  his  comrades  depended  on  his 
efforts.  He  had  told  Colonel  Clarke  he  would  get 
through  or  die,  and  he  was  a  long  way  from  dead 
yet.  Only  an  hour  and  a  half  more  and  he  would 
have  sent  the  message  and  then  all  the  Indians  in 
the  country  could  go  to  the  demnition  bow  wows 
for  all  he  cared. 

Hearing  no  more  shots  Denny  drew  rein  for  a 
moment  and  listened.  Not  a  sound  could  be  heard, 
the  snow  had  started  to  softly  fall  and  the  first 
faint  rays  of  light  on  the  eastern  horizon  heralded 
the  approach  of  a  new-born  day.  Ah!  he  had 
outridden  his  pursuers.  Gently  patting  his  faith- 
ful horse's  neck,  he  once  more  started  swiftly  on, 
and  when  he  was  within  a  few  miles  of  the  line 
he  chanced  to  glance  back  and  saw  that  one  lone 
Indian  was  following  him. 

Now  it  was  a  case  of  man  against  man.  In  his 
first  flight  and  running  fight  he  had  fired  away  all 
his  ammunition  save  one  cartridge.  This  he  de- 
termined to  use  to  settle  his  pursuer,  but  not  until 
it  was  absolutely  necessary ;  and  putting  spurs  to 
his  already  tired  horse,  he  galloped  on. 


2 1 4          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

The  Indian  was  slowly  gaining  on  him  and  he 
saw  the  time  for  decisive  action  was  at  hand. 
Ahead  of  him  but  one  short  half  mile  was  that 
line,  already  in  the  early  morning  light  he  could 
see  the  poles,  and  if  the  god  of  battles  would  only 
speed  his  one  remaining  bullet  in  the  right  direc- 
tion, his  message  could  be  sent  in  safety  and  his 
comrades  rescued.  His  wounded  right  arm  was 
numb  from  pain  and  his  left  was  not  the  steadiest 
in  the  world,  but  nothing  venture,  nothing  have, 
and  just  then — Bang!  and  a  ballet  whizzed  by 
his  head.  "Not  this  toime,  ye  red  devil,"  Denny 
defiantly  shouted.  A  second  bullet  and  he  dropped 
off  his  horse.  Quickly  wheeling  about,  he  dropped 
on  his  stomach,  and  taking  a  careful  aim  over  his 
wounded  right  arm,  he  fired.  The  shot  was  appar- 
ently a  true  one  and  the  Indian  pitched  off  head 
first  and  lay  still. 

With  an  exultant  shout  Hogan  jumped  up  and 
started  for  the  line.  Nothing  could  stop  him  now. 
Loss  of  blood  and  the  intense  cold  had  weakened 
him  so  that  his  legs  were  shaky,  the  earth  seemed 
to  be  going  around  at  a  great  rate,  dark  spots  were 
dancing  before  his  eyes ;  but  with  a  superhuman 
effort  he  recovered  himself  and  was  soon  at  the 
line. 

The  wire  was  strung  on  light  lances,  and  if 


Private  Dennis  Hogan,  Hero      215 

Denny  were  in  full  possession  of  his  strength  he 
could  easily  pull  one  down.  He  threw  his  weight 
against  one  with  all  of  his  remaining  force — but 
to  no  avail.  What  was  he  to  do?  But  sixteen 
feet  intervened  between  him  and  that  precious 
wire. 

The  faithful,  tired  horse,  when  Denny  jumped 
off,  had  only  run  a  little  way  and  stopped,  only  too 
glad  of  the  chance  to  rest.  He  was  now  standing 
near  Hogan,  as  if  intent  on  being  of  some  further 
use  to  him.  Suddenly  Denny's  anxious  eyes 
lighted  on  the  horsehair  lariat  attached  to  the  sad- 
dle. Here  was  the  means  at  hand.  Quickly  as 
he  could  he  undid  it,  and  with  great  difficulty  tied 
one  end  to  the  pommel  and  the  other  to  the  lance. 
Then  he  gave  the  horse  a  sharp  blow,  and, 
Crash!  down  went  the  lance. 

Making  the  connections  to  the  pocket  instru- 
ment as  best  he  could  with  one  cold  hand,  he 
placed  the  wire  across  a  sharp  rock  and  a  few 
blows  with  the  butt  of  his  revolver  soon  cut  it. 
The  deed  was  done. 

******* 

Private  Dunn,  the  operator  at  Fort  Scott, 
opened  up  his  office  bright  and  early  one  cold 
morning  and  marveled  to  find  the  wire  working 
clear  to  Kearney.  After  having  a  chat  with  the 


2 1 6         Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

man  at  Kearney  about  the  Indian  trouble,  he  was 
sitting  around  like  Mr.  Micawber  when  he  heard 
the  sounder  weakly  calling  "FS."  Quickly  ad- 
justing down  he  answered  and  this  is  what  he 
took. 

"COMMANDING  OFFICER, 

"Fort  Scott,  Montana. 

"29th  Infantry  surrounded  by  large  body 
hostile  Sioux  just  north  of  junction  of  the  forks 
of  the  Red  Bud.  Colonel  Clarke  asks  for  imme- 
diate re-enforcements ;  ammunition  almost  gone ; 
situation  desperate.  I  left  the  command  at  three 
o'clock  this  morning. 

"(Signed.)  DENNIS  Ho—/' 

Then  blank,  the  sounder  was  still  and  the  line 
remained  open.  The  sending  had  been  weak  and 
shaky,  just  as  if  the  sender  had  been  out  all  night, 
but  there  was  no  mistaking  the  purport  of  the  mes- 
sage. 

Dunn  didn't  wait  to  pick  up  his  hat  but  fairly 
flew  down  the  line  to  the  commanding  officer's 
quarters.  The  colonel  was  not  up  yet,  but  the 
sound  of  animated  voices  in  the  hallway  caused 
him  to  appear  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  in  his 
dressing  gown. 

"What  is  it,  Dunn,"  he  asked. 


Private  Dennis  Hogan,  Hero      217 

"A  message  from  the  2gth  Infantry,  sir,  saying 
they  are  surrounded  by  the  Sioux  Indians  and 
want  help." 

Colonel  Foster  read  the  message,  and  ex- 
claimed, 

"My  God !  Charlie  Clarke  stuck  out  there  and 
wants  help!  Dunn,  have  the  trumpeter  sound 
'Boots  and  Saddles/  Present  my  compliments 
to  the  adjutant  and  tell  him  I  desire  him  to  report 
to  me  at  once.  Kraus," — this  to  his  Dutch  striker 
who  was  standing  around  in  open-mouthed  won- 
derment— "saddle  my  horse  and  get  my  field  kit 
ready  at  once.  Be  quick  about  it." 

A  few  men  had  seen  Dunn's  mad  rush  to  the 
colonel's  quarters  and  suspected  that  something 
was  up,  so  they  were  not  surprised  a  few  minutes 
later  to  hear  "Boots  and  Saddles"  ring  out  on  the 
clear  morning  air.  The  command  had  been  in 
readiness  for  field  service  for  some  days,  and  but  a 
few  moments  elapsed  until  six  sturdy  troops  were 
standing  in  line  on  the  snow-covered  parade.  A 
hurried  inspection  was  made  by  the  troop  com- 
manders and  then  Colonel  Foster  commanded 
"Fours  right,  trot,  march,"  and  away  they  went 
on  their  sixty-mile  ride  of  rescue.  A  few  halts 
were  made  during  the  day  to  tighten  girths,  and 
at  six  o'clock  a  short  rest  was  made  for  coffee. 


2i 8          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

******* 
The  sound  of  the  firing  across  the  river  shortly 
after  Hogan  left  the  2Qth  was  plainly  heard  by  his 
comrades  and  many  a  man  was  heard  to  exclaim, 
"It's  all  up  with  poor  Denny."  But  the  firing 
grew  more  distant  and  Colonel  Clarke  had  hopes 
that  Hogan  had  successfully  eluded  his  pursuers 
and  determined  to  hold  on  as  best  he  could.  He 
knew  full  well  that  the  Indians  would  be  extra- 
ordinarily careful  and  that  it  would  be  folly  for 
him  to  attempt  to  get  another  courier  through  that 
night.  That  day  was  indeed  a  hard  one ;  it  was 
trying  to  the  extreme.  Tenaciously  did  those  In- 
dians watch  their  prey.  Well  did  they  know  by 
the  rising  of  the  morrow's  sun  the  ammunition  of 
the  soldiers  would  be  exhausted  and  then  would 
come  their  feast  of  murder  and  scalps ;  Little  Big 
Horn  would  be  repeated. 

About  two  o'clock,  Colonel  Clarke,  utterly  re- 
gardless of  personal  danger,  exposed  himself  for 
a  moment  and  Chug !  down  he  went,  shot  through 
the  thigh  by  a  Winchester  bullet.  Brave  old  chap, 
never  for  one  minute  did  he  give  up,  and  after 
having  his  wound  dressed  as  best  it  could  be  done, 
he  insisted  on  remaining  near  the  fighting  line. 
Lieutenant  Jarvis  was  shot  through  the  arm,  Cap- 
tain Belknap  of  E  Company  was  lying  dead  near 


Private  Dennis  Hogan,  Hero      219 

his  company,  and  scores  of  other  brave  men  had 
gone  to  their  last  reckoning.  Hanigan,  Hogan's 
bunkie,  was  badly  wounded,  and  out  of  his  head. 
Every  once  in  a  while  he  would  mumble,  "Never 
you  mind,  fellers,  we  will  be  all  right  yet,  just 
stand  'em  off  a  little  while  longer  and  Denny  will 
be  here  with  the  I  ith  Cavalry.  He  said  he'd  do  it 
and  by  God !  he  won't  fail." 

As  the  shades  of  the  cold  winter  evening  crept 
silently  over  the  earth,  the  firing  died  away,  and 
the  command  settled  down  to  another  night  of  the 
tensest  anxiety  and  watching.  Oh!  why  didn't 
those  northern  regiments  come  ?  Did  Hogan  suc- 
ceed in  his  perilous  mission?  Depressed  indeed 
were  the  spirits  of  the  officers  and  men. 

About  nine  o'clock  Lieutenant  Tracy,  the  adju- 
tant, was  sitting  beside  his  chief,  who  was  appar- 
ently asleep.  Suddenly,  Colonel  Clarke  sat  up 
and  grabbing  Tracy  by  the  arm  said,  "Hark! 
what's  that  noise  I  hear?" 

"Nothing  sir,  nothing,"  replied  Tracy;  "lie 
down  Colonel  and  try  to  rest,  you  need  it  sir" — 
and  then  aside — "poor  old  chap,  his  mind's 
wandering." 

"No,  no,  Tracy.  Listen  man,  don't  you  hear 
it  ?  It  sounds  like  the  beat  of  many  horses'  hoofs, 


220          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

re-enforcements  are  coming,  thank  God.  Hogan 
got  through." 

Just  then,  Crash !  Bang !  and  a  clear  voice  rang 
out,  "Right  front  into  line,  gallop,  March! 
Charge!"  and  those  sturdy  chaps  of  the  nth 
Cavalry  true  to  their  regimental  hatred  for  the  In- 
dians, charged  down  among  the  red  men  scatter- 
ing them  like  so  much  chaff.  Then  to  the  north- 
wards was  heard  another  ringing  cheer,  and  the 
two  long-delayed  regiments  came  down  among 
the  Indians  like  a  thunderbolt  of  vengeance. 
Truly,  ''It  never  rains  but  it  pours."  The  29th, 
all  that  was  left  of  it,  was  saved,  and  when  Colonel 
Foster  leaned  over  the  prostrate  form  of  his  old 
friend  and  comrade,  Colonel  Clarke  feebly  asked, 
"Where  is  that  brave  little  chap,  Hogan?" 

"Hogan?     Who  is  Hogan?"  asked  Foster. 

"Why,  my  God,  man,  Hogan  was  the  man  that 
got  beyond  the  Indian  lines  to  make  the  ride  to 
inform  you  of  our  plight.  Didn't  you  see  him  ?" 

"No,  I  didn't  see  him,"  and  then  Colonel  Foster 
related  how  the  information  had  reached  him. 

A  rescuing  party  was  started  out  and  in  the  pale 
moonlight  they  came  upon  the  body  of  poor 
Denny  lying  stark  and  stiff  under  the  telegraph 
line,  his  left  hand  grasping  the  instrument  and  the 


Private  Dennis  Hogan,  Hero      221 

key  open.  A  bullet  hole  in  his  head  mutely  told 
how  he  had  met  his  death.  Beside  him  lay  the 
Indian,  dead,  one  hand  grasping  Hogan's  scalp 
lock,  the  other  clasping  a  murderous-looking  knife. 
Death  had  mercifully  prevented  the  accomplish- 
ment of  his  hellish  purpose. 

Hogan's  shot  had  mortally  wounded  the  Indian 
in  the  left  breast,  but  with  all  the  vengeful  nature 
of  his  race,  he  had  crawled  forward  on  his  hands 
and  knees,  and  while  Hogan  was  intent  on  send- 
ing his  precious  message,  he  shot  him  through  the 
head,  but  not  until  the  warning  had  been  given  to 
Fort  Scott.  Denny's  faithful  horse  was  standing 
near,  as  if  keeping  watch  over  the  inanimate  form 
of  his  late  friend. 

They  buried  him  where  he  lay,  and  a  traveler 
passing  over  that  trail,  will  observe  a  solitary 
grave.  On  the  tombstone  at  the  head  is  in- 
scribed : 

"DENNIS  HOGAN, 

"Private,  Company  B, 

"29th  U.  S.  Infantry. 

"He  died  that  others  might  live." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    COMMISSION    WON — IN    A    GENERAL    STRIKE 

THE  time  spent  as  a  soldier  in  the  ranks  passed 
by  all  too  swiftly.  The  service  was  pleasant,  the 
duty  easy,  and  the  regiment  one  of  the  best  in  the 
entire  army.  I  don't  know  any  two  and  a  half 
years  of  my  life  that  have  been  as  happy  and 
peaceful  as  those  spent  in  the  ranks  of  the  Ameri- 
can Army.  When  the  proper  time  came  my  recom- 
mendations were  all  in  good  shape  and  I  was  duly 
ordered  to  appear  before  an  august  lot  of  officers 
and  gentlemen  at  Fortress  Monroe,  Virginia,  to 
determine  my  fitness  to  trot  along  behind  a  com- 
pany, sign  the  sick-book,  and  witness  an  occasional 
issue  of  clothing.  One  warm  June  afternoon  I 
bade  good-bye  to  the  men  who  had  so  long  been 
my  comrades,  and  journeyed  to  the  eastwards.  I 
was  successful  in  the  examinations,  and  on  a  Sun- 
day morning  early  in  August,  myself,  in  company 
with  twelve  other  young  chaps,  received  the  pre- 
cious little  parchment  in  which  the  President  of 

222 


The  Commission  Won          223 

the  United  States  sends  greetings  and  proclaims 
to  all  the  world : — 

"That  reposing  especial  confidence  and  trust  in 
the  valor,  patriotism,  and  fidelity  of  one  John 
Smith,  I  have  made  him  a  second  lieutenant  in  the 
regular  army.  Look  out  for  him  because  he  hasn't 
much  sense  but  I  have  strong  hopes  as  how  he  will 
learn  after  a  while." 

The  apprenticeship  was  finished  and  the  chev- 
rons gave  way  to  the  shoulder  straps. 

This  time  I  thought  surely  I  had  heard  the  last 
of  the  telegraph,  never  again  was  I  going  to  touch 
a  key.  I  had  been  at  my  first  station  just  about 
two  months  when  one  morning  I  appeared  before 
the  Signal  Officer  of  the  post  and  plaintively  asked 
him  to  let  me  have  a  set  of  telegraph  instruments. 
He  did,  and  it  wasn't  long  before  I  had  a  ticker 
going  in  my  quarters.  There  was  no  one  to  prac- 
tice \vith  me,  so  I  just  pounded  away  by  myself 
for  an  hour  or  so  each  day,  to  keep  my  hand  in.  I 
have  yet  to  see  a  man  who  has  worked  at  the  busi- 
ness for  any  length  of  time  who  could  give  it  up 
entirely.  It's  like  the  opium  habit — powerful 
hard  to  break  off.  I  have  never  since  tried  to  lose 
sight  of  it. 

In  189 —  one  of  those  spasmodic  upheavals 
known  as  a  sympathetic  strike  spread  over  the 


224          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

country  like  wild  fire,  and  it  wasn't  long  before  the 
continuance  of  law  and  order  was  entirely  out  of 
the  hands  of  the  state  authorities  in  about  ten 
states,  and  once  more  the  faithful  little  army  was 
called  out  to  put  its  strong  hand  on  the  throat  of 
destruction  and  pillage.  Troops  were  hurriedly 
despatched  from  all  posts  to  the  worst  points  and 
the  inefficient  state  militia  in  several  states  rele- 
gated to  its  proper  sphere — that  of  holding  prize 
drills  and  barbecues. 

Owing  to  the  fact  that  the  army  cannot  be  used 
until  a  state  executive  acknowledges  his  inability 
to  preserve  law  and  order,  and  owing  also  to  the 
fact  that  the  executives  in  one  or  two  of  the  states 
were  pandering  to  the  socialistic  element,  saying 
they  could  enforce  the  laws  without  the  assistance 
of  the  army,  this  strike  had  spread  until  the  entire 
country  except  the  extreme  east  and  southeast  was 
in  its  strong  grasp,  and  the  work  cut  out  for  the 
army  was  doled  out  to  it  in  great  big  chunks.  Men 
seemed  to  lose  all  their  senses  and  the  emissaries 
of  the  union  succeeded  in  getting  many  converts, 
each  one  of  which  paid  the  sum  of  one  dollar  to 
the  so-called  head  of  the  union.  Snap  for  the 
aforesaid  "head,"  wasn't  it?  It  was  positively 
refreshing  to  the  army  at  this  time  to  have  at  its 
head  a  man  who  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  pan- 


The  Commission  Won          225 

der  to  the  socialists,  and  one  who  would  enforce 
his  solemn  oath,  "To  enforce  the  laws  of  the  Uni- 
ted States,"  at  all  hazards.  United  States  mail 
trains  were  being  interfered  with ;  the  Inter-State 
Commerce  law  was  being  violated  with  impunity, 
and  various  other  acts  of  vandalism  and  pillage 
were  being  committed  all  over  the  land — and  the 
municipal  and  state  authorities  "winked  the  other 
eye." 

Way  out  in  one  of  the  far  western  posts  was  a 
certain  Lieutenant  Jack  Brainerd,  3ist  U.  S.  In- 
fantry, serving  with  his  company.  Jack  was  a 
big,  whole-souled,  impulsive  chap,  and  before  his 
entrance  to  the  military  academy,  had  been  a 
pretty  fair  operator.  In  fact,  being  the  son  of  a 
general  superintendent  of  one  of  the  big  trunk 
lines,  he  was  quite  familiar  with  a  railroad,  and 
could  do  almost  anything  from  driving  a  spike,  or 
throwing  a  switch  to  running  an  engine.  The  first 
three  years  succeeding  his  graduation  had  been 
those  of  enervating  peace ;  all  of  which  palled  on 
the  soul  of  Lieutenant  Jack  to  a  large  degree.  The 
martial  spirit  beat  high  within  his  breast,  and  he 
wanted  a  scrap — he  wanted  one  badly. 

The  preliminary  mutterings  of  this  great  strike 
had  been  heard  for  days,  but  no  one  dreamed  that 
anarchy  was  about  to  break  loose  with  the  strength 


226          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

of  all  the  fires  of  hell ;  and  yet  such  was  the  case. 
On  the  evening  of  July  4th,  a  message  came  to  the 
commanding  officer  at  Fort  Blank,  to  send  his 
command  of  six  companies  of  infantry  to  C —  at 
once  to  assist  in  quelling  the  riots.  The  chance 
for  a  scrap  so  longed  for  by  Lieutenant  Brainerd 
was  coming  swift  and  sure.  The  next  morning 
the  command  pulled  out.  The  trip  was  unevent- 
ful during  the  day,  but  at  night  a  warning  was 
received  by  Major  Sharp,  the  grizzled  battalion 
commander,  who  had  fought  everything  from 
manly,  brave  confederates  to  skulking  Indians,  to 
watch  out  for  trouble  as  he  approached  the  storm 
centre.  There  were  rumors  of  dynamited  bridges, 
broken  rails,  etc.  The  major  didn't  believe  much 
in  these  yarns,  but — "Verbum  Sap." — and  the 
precautions  were  taken.  The  next  morning  at 
five  the  train  pulled  into  Hartshorne,  eleven  miles 
out  from  C — .  This  was  the  beginning  of  the 
great  railroad  yards  and  evidences  of  the  presence 
of  the  enemy  were  becoming  very  apparent.  A 
large  crowd  had  gathered  to  watch  the  bluecoats 
and  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  they  were  in  full 
sympathy  with  the  strikers.  "Scab"  and  a  few 
other  choice  epithets  were  hurled  at  the  train  crew, 
and  when  they  were  ready  to  pull  out  the  train 
didn't  go.  The  conductor  went  forward  and 


The  Commission  Won          227 

found  that  the  engineer  had  refused  to  handle  his 
engine  because  Hartshorne  was  his  home  and  the 
crowd  had  threatened  to  kill  him  if  he  hauled  that 
load  of  "slaves  of  Pullman"  any  further.  When 
Major  Sharp  heard  of  it  his  little  grey  eyes 
snapped  and  he  growled  out : — 

"Won't  pull  this  train,  eh !  Well,  damn  him, 
we'll  make  him  pull  it.  Here,  Mr.  Brainerd,  you 
take  some  men  and  go  forward  and  make  that  en- 
gineer take  us  through  these  yards.  If  he  refuses 
you  know  what  to  do  with  him." 

Do  ?  Well,  I  reckon  Jack  knew  what  to  do  all 
right  enough.  He  took  Sergeant  Fealy,  a  vet- 
eran, and  three  men  and  went  forward.  The  en- 
gineer, a  little  snub-nosed  Irishman,  was  at  his 
post  with  his  fireman,  a  good  head  of  steam  was 
on,  but  nary  an  inch  did  that  train  budge.  A  big 
crowd  of  men  and  women  stood  around  jeering 
and  laughing  at  the  plight  of  the  bluecoats.  Push- 
ing his  way  through  the  crowd,  Jack  climbed  up 
into  the  cab  closely  followed  by  his  little  escort. 

"Sergeant  Fealy,"  he  said  in  a  voice  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  a  block,  "get  up  on  that  tender, 
have  your  men  load  their  rifles,  and  shoot  the  first 
d — d  man  that  raises  a  hand  or  throws  a  missile. 
And  you,"  this  to  the  engineer,  "shove  that  reverse 
lever  over  and  pull  out." 


228          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

"But,  my  God,  lieutenant,"  expostulated  the  en- 
gineer, "this  is  my  home  and  if  I  pull  you  fellers 
out  of  here  they'll  kill  me  on  sight — besides  look  at 
the  track  ahead.  I'd  run  over  and  kill  a  lot  of 
those  people." 

"There's  no  'buts'  about  it.  This  train  is  going 
in  or  I'll  lose  my  commission  in  the  army ;  besides 
if  these  people  haven't  sense  enough  to  get  out  of 
the  way  let  'em  die." 

Mr.  Engineer  started  to  expostulate  farther  but 
the  ominous  click  of  a  .38  Colt's  was  incentive 
enough  to  make  him  stop  and  then  he  shoved  her 
over  and  gave  her  a  little  steam — just  a  coaxer. 

"Here,  you  blasted  chump,  that  won't  do,"  and 
with  that  Brainerd  reached  over  and  yanked  the 
throttle  so  that  she  bounded  away  like  a  hare ;  at 
the  same  time  he  gave  her  sand.  It's  a  great  won- 
der every  draw  head  in  the  train  didn't  pull  out, 
but  fortunately  they  held  on.  The  crowd  on  the 
track  melted  away  like  the  mists  before  the  sum- 
mer's sun,  and  beyond  a  few  taunting  jeers  no 
overt  act  was  committed.  The  engineer  didn't 
relish  the  idea  of  a  soldier  running  his  engine  and 
became  somewhat  obstreperous.  Brainerd  grabbed 
him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  landed  him  all 
in  a  heap  in  the  coal.  Then  he  climbed  up  on  the 
right-hand  side  of  the  cab  and  took  charge  of 


The  Commission  Won          229 

things  himself.  There  were  myriads  of  tracks 
stretching  out  before  him  like  the  long  arms  of 
some  giant  octopus,  but  all  traffic  was  suspended 
on  account  of  the  strike  and  the  main  line  was 
clear.  The  train  flew  down  the  line  like  a  scared 
rabbit  and  in  thirty  minutes  reached  the  camp  at 
Blake  Park.  I  had  arrived  there  that  morning 
from  the  south  for  special  service  and  when  I  saw 
Brainerd  climb  down  off  of  that  engine  his  face 
was  smutty,  but  his  eyes  twinkled  and  he  came 
towards  me  with  a  broad  grin  and  said, 

"Hello,  Bates,  where  in  thunder  did  you  spring 
from?" 

There  wasn't  much  time  for  talking  because  the 
great  city  was  groaning  beneath  the  grasp  of  an- 
archy, and  until  that  power  was  broken,  there 
would  be  no  rest  for  the  weary. 

The  situation  that  existed  at  this  time  is  too  well 
known  to  require  any  explanation  here.  The  state 
and  city  authorities  were  powerless;  the  militia 
inefficient  and  many  a  citizen  bowed  his  head  and 
thanked  God  on  that  warm  July  morning  for  the 
arrival  of  the  regulars.  Only  twenty-one  hun- 
dred of  them  all  told,  mind  you,  against  so  many 
thousands  of  the  rioters,  and  yet,  they  were  dis- 
ciplined men  and  led  by  officers  who  simply  en- 
forced orders  as  they  received  them.  No  matter 


230          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

where  or  what  the  sympathies  of  the  men  of  a 
company  might  be,  when  the  captain  said  "Fire," 
look  out,  because  the  bullets  would  generally  fly 
breast  high.  The  situation  resembled  the  Paris 
Commune,  and  but  for  the  timely  arrival  of  the 
small  body  of  bluecoats,  another  cow  might  have 
kicked  over  another  lamp,  and  the  frightful  con- 
flagration of  1871  have  been  more  than  dupli- 
cated. But  the  "cow"  was  slaughtered  and  the 
"lamp"  extinguished. 

The  morning  after  Brainerd  arrived  he  was  de- 
tailed on  special  service  and  ordered  to  report  to 
me,  and  together  we  worked  until  the  trouble  was 
over.  Just  what  this  service  was  need  not  be  re- 
corded, but  one  thing  sure,  railroads  and  the  tele- 
graph figured  in  it  quite  largely.  In  fact  the  gen- 
eral superintendent  of  the  Western  Union  Tele- 
graph Company  placed  the  entire  resources  of  the 
company  at  my  disposal.  A  wire  was  run  direct 
to  Washington,  lines  run  to  all  the  camps,  and 
Jack  and  I  each  carried  a  little  pocket  instrument 
on  our  person. 

Although  the  Brotherhood  of  Locomotive  En- 
gineers did  not  go  out  in  a  body,  there  was  quite 
a  number  of  them  who  would  not  pull  trains  for 
fear  of  personal  violence  from  the  strikers.  One 
old  chap,  Bob  Redway,  by  name,  had  known  Ma- 


The  Commission  Won          231 

jor  McKenney  of  our  battalion,  in  days  gone  by, 
when  he  was  pulling  a  train  on  the  N.  P.,  and  the 
major  was  stationed  at  Missoula.  Bob  wandered 
into  camp  one  afternoon  to  see  his  old  friend  and 
just  at  that  time  a  company  was  ordered  to  the 
southern  part  of  the  city  to  stop  a  crowd  that  was 
looting  and  burning  P.  H.  Railway  property.  As 
usual  the  engineer  backed  out  at  the  last  moment. 
The  major  turned  to  Redway,  and  said,  "See  here, 
Bob,  you're  not  in  sympathy  with  these  cutthroats, 
suppose  you  pull  this  train  out." 

"All  right,  major,  I'll  pull  you  through  if  the 
old  girl  will  only  hold  up.  She's  a  stranger  to 
me,  but  I  reckon  she'll  last." 

Brainerd  and  I  were  to  go  along  and  do  some 
special  work  around  the  stock-yards,  and  soon  we 
were  shooting  down  the  track  like  a  flyer.  At 
62nd  street  we  passed  a  sullen  looking  crowd  and 
when  we  reached  i3Oth  street,  we  were  flagged 
by  the  operator  in  the  tower,  and  informed  that 
the  mob  in  our  rear  was  starting  to  block  the  track 
by  overturning  a  standard  sleeper.  They  were 
going  to  cut  us  off.  We  cut  the  engine  loose,  put 
fourteen  men  up  on  the  tender,  and  Brainerd  and  I 
started  back  with  them.  .  The  engine  was  going 
head  on,  having  backed  out  from  the  city,  and  Bob 
let  her  put  for  all  she  was  worth.  Just  at  62nd 


232          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

street  there  is  a  long  sweeping  curve  and  we  were 
coming  around  it  like  a  streak  of  blue  lightning, 
when  all  at  once  we  saw  the  crowd  just  in  the  act 
of  pulling  the  sleeper  over  on  our  track.  There 
was  no  time  to  lose  and  the  command  "Fire"  was 
sharply  given.  "Bang,"  rang  out  the  Spring- 
fields,  one  or  two  of  the  mob  dropped  to  the 
ground,  the  rest  let  go  of  the  ropes  and  ran  like 
scared  cats,  and  the  car  tottered  back  in  its  original 
place.  Redway  had  shut  off  steam  and  was  slow- 
ing down  under  ordinary  air,  when  all  at  once 
there  was  a  dull  deafening  roar,  and  then  for  me — 
oblivion.  I  was  only  stunned  and  when  I  regained 
consciousness  looked  around  and  saw  the  men 
slowly  regaining  their  feet.  Redway  was  not 
killed,  but  the  shock  and  concussion  of  the  detona- 
tion of  the  dynamite  made  him  lose  his  speech  and 
he  was  bleeding  profusely  at  the  nose  and  ears. 
The  cowcatcher,  headlight  and  forward  trucks  of 
the  engine  were  blown  to  smithereens,  but  fortu- 
nately the  boiler  did  not  burst  and  there  she  stood 
like  some  powerful  monster  wounded  to  the  death. 
The  mob,  imagining  that  their  fiendish  work  had 
been  complete,  became  emboldened  and  rapidly 
gathered  around  the  little  body  of  bluecoats.  It 
began  to  look  rocky,  and  Brainerd  came  limping 
over  to  me  and  said,  "Bates,  I'm  pretty  badly 


The  Commission  Won          233 

bruised  about  the  legs,  and  can't  climb,  but  if 
you're  able,  for  God's  sake  climb  that  telegraph 
pole  and  cut  in  and  ask  department  headquarters 
to  send  us  down  some  help.  I'll  form  the  men 
around  the  bottom  of  the  pole  and  shoot  the  first 
damned  man  or  woman  that  throws  a  missile. 
We're  in  a  devilish  bad  box." 

I  took  the  little  instrument,  nippers  and  wire 
and  up  I  went.  There  were  side  steps  on  the  pole 
so  the  ascent  was  easy.  What  a  scene  below! 
Five  or  six  thousand  angry  faces,  besotted,  coarse 
and  ill-bred  looking  brutes,  gazing  up  at  me  with 
the  wrath  of  vengeance  in  their  hearts;  and  held 
at  bay  by  a  band  of  fourteen  battered  and  bruised 
bluecoats,  a  wounded  engineer  and  fireman,  com- 
manded by  an  almost  beardless  boy.  Well  did 
that  mob  know  that  if  those  rifles  ever  spoke  there 
would  be  a  number  of  vacant  chairs  at  the  various 
family  boards  that  night.  The  wire  was  soon  cut, 
the  main  office  gave  me  department  headquarters 
and  in  thirty  minutes'  time  that  mob  was  scatter- 
ing like  so  much  chaff  before  the  wind,  and  with  a 
ringing  cheer,  two  companies  of  the  — th  Infantry 
came  down  among  them  like  a  thunderbolt.  We 
were  saved  and  took  Redway  back  to  camp  with 
us.  That  evening  the  major  came  over  to  see 
him.  Poor  chap!  he  couldn't  speak  but  he  mo- 


234          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

tioned  for  a  pencil  and  paper  and  this  is  what  he 
wrote : — 

"Don't  worry,  major,  I'm  all  right.  My  speak- 
ing machine  seems  to  have  had  a  head  end  collision 
with  a  cyclone,  but  if  you  want  me  to  pull  any 
more  trains  out  my  right  arm  is  still  in  pretty 
good  shape."  Bob  hung  to  us  all  through  the  try- 
ing weeks  that  followed  and  in  the  end  some  of  us 
succeeded  in  getting  him  a  good  position  in  one 
of  the  departments  in  Washington. 

Far  up  in  the  Northwest  things  were  in  a  very 
bad  shape.  Everything  was  tied  up  tight;  mail 
trains  could  not  run  because  there  were  no  men  to 
run  them ;  "Debsism"  had  a  firm  grasp ;  and  even 
though  many  of  the  trainmen  were  willing  to  run, 
intimidation  by  the  strikers  caused  them  to  go 
slow. 

At  one  place,  call  it  Bridgeton,  there  was  an 
overland  mail  waiting  to  go  out,  but  no  engineer. 
Here's  where  the  versatility  of  the  American  sol- 
dier came  in.  Major  Clarke  of  the  — th  Infantry, 
had  four  companies  of  his  regiment  guarding  pub- 
lic property  at  Bridgeton  and  he  sent  word  by  his 
orderly  that  he  wanted  a  locomotive  engineer  and 
a  fireman.  Quick  as  a  flash  he  had  six  engineers 
and  any  number  of  men  who  could  fire.  He  chose 
two  good  men  and  then  detailed  Captain  Stilling's 


The  Commission  Won          235 

company  to  go  along  as  an  escort.  Orders  were 
procured  at  the  telegraph  office  for  the  train  to  run 
to  Pokeville,  where  further  orders  would  be  sent 
them.  When  the  crowd  of  loiterers  and  strikers 
saw  the  preparations  they  jeered  in  derision. 
They  had  the  engineer  and  fireman  coralled,  but 
their  laugh  turned  to  sorrow  when  they  saw  a 
strapping  infantry  sergeant  climb  into  the  cab  and 
after  placing  his  loaded  rifle  in  front  of  him,  he 
grasped  the  throttle  and  away  they  went — much  to 
the  disgust  of  Mr.  Rioter.  They  didn't  like  it 
worth  a  cent,  but  as  one  striker  put  it,  "What's  the 
use  of  monkeyin'  with  them  reg'lars  ?  When  they 
gets  an  order  to  shoot,  they're  just  damned  fools 
enough  to  shoot  right  into  the  crowd.  Milish' 
fire  in  the  air,  because  as  a  rule  they  have  friends 
in  the  crowd  and  don't  care  to  hurt  'em." 

Pokeville  was  one  hundred  and  two  miles  from 
Bridgeton  and  the  run  was  carefully  made  and 
without  incident.  When  the  volunteer  engineer 
and  Captain  Stillings,  who  was  playing  conductor, 
went  to  the  office  for  orders,  they  found  the  place 
deserted.  A  sullen-looking  crowd  was  looking  on 
and  appeared  to  enjoy  the  discomfiture  of  the  sol- 
diers. They  had  put  the  operator  away  for  a 
while.  Pressing  up  near  the  sides  of  the  train 
they  became  somewhat  ugly  and  Captain  Stillings 


236          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

brought  out  his  company,  and  lining  them  up 
alongside  of  the  track  he  turned  to  his  ist  lieu- 
tenant and  said : 

"Mr.  Mitchell,  I'm  going  into  this  telegraph 
office.  If  this  crowd  gets  ugly  I  want  you  to 
shoot  the  first  damned  man  that  moves  a  finger  to 
harm  anybody." 

But  without  an  operator  orders  could  not  be 
procured,  and  without  orders  the  train  could  not 
go.  Captain  Stillings  was  in  a  quandary,  but  all 
at  once  he  stepped  out  in  front  of  his  company  and 
said  in  a  loud  tone,  "I  want  an  operator." 

"I'm  one,  sir,"  said  Private  O'Brien,  quickly 
stepping  forward  and  saluting. 

"Go  in  that  office  and  get  orders  for  this  train." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  O'Brien,  and  in  a  minute 
another  bluecoat  was  helping  the  train  on  its  way. 
If  Captain  Stillings  had  wanted  a  Chinese  inter- 
preter he  could  have  gotten  one — any  old  thing. 
The  train  had  no  further  mishaps,  because  every- 
thing necessary  to  run  a  railroad  was  right  here  in 
one  company  of  sixty-two  men  belonging  to  the 
regular  army. 

July  slipped  away  and  it  was  well  into  August 
before  we  returned  to  our  posts  and  the  old  grind 
of  "Fours  right,"  and  "Fours  left." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

EXPERIENCES     AS     A     GOVERNMENT     CENSOR     OF 
TELEGRAPH 

THE  few  years  succeeding  the  great  strike  were 
ones  of  calm,  peaceful  tranquility.  Each  recurring 
November  ist,  brought  the  initiation  of  Post  Ly- 
ceums at  all  garrisons,  in  which  the  officers  were 
gathered  together  twice  a  week,  and  war  in  all  its 
phases  was  studied.  We  didn't  exactly  know 
where  the  war  was  coming  from,  but,  still  we 
boned  it  out.  Old  campaigns  were  fought  over; 
the  mistakes  made  by  the  world's  greatest  com- 
manders, from  Alexander  the  Great  to  Grant  and. 
Lee  were  pointed  out;  Kriegspiel  was  played; 
essays  written  and  discussed,  recommendations 
made  as  to  ammunition  and  food  supply;  use  of 
artillery  in  attack  and  defense ;  the  proper  method 
of  employing  the  telegraph  in  the  war;  and  a 
thousand  and  one  things  relative  to  the  machine 
militaire  were  gone  over.  All  this  time  we  were 
slumbering  over  a  smoldering  volcano,  and  on 
February  16,  1898,  the  eruption  broke  loose;  the 
237 


238          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

good  ship  Maine  was  destroyed  in  Havana  harbor, 
and  the  feelings  of  the  people,  already  drawn  to 
the  breaking  point  by  the  inhuman  cruelties  of 
Spain  towards  her  colonies  near  our  own  shores, 
burst  with  a  vehemence  that  portended,  in  unmis- 
takable language,  the  rending  asunder  of  the  once 
proud  kingdom  of  Spain.  The  army  wanted  a 
war;  the  navy  wanted  it,  the  whole  population 
wanted  it  and  here  it  was  within  our  grasp.  It 
was  the  dawning  of  a  new  day  for  the  United 
States ;  a  new  empire  was  being  born  in  the  West- 
ern hemisphere.  The  feverish  preparations  at- 
tendant upon  the  new  conditions  are  of  too  recent 
date  to  need  any  sketching  here. 

When  it  was  finally  determined  that  the  time 
had  arrived  for  the  assembling  of  the  small  but 
efficient  regular  army,  I  was  stationed  with  my 
regiment  at  Fort  Wayne,  Michigan.  Like  all 
other  troops,  we  were  at  the  post  ready  for  the 
start.  The  pistol  cracked  on  the  I5th  of  April, 
and  on  the  iQth  we  started.  Mobile,  Alabama, 
was  our  objective  where  we  arrived  on  the  22nd 
of  the  month.  Here  began  the  ceaseless  prepara- 
tion for  the  part  the  regiment  was  to  play  in  the 
grand  drama  of  war  that  was  to  follow,  all  this 
camp  life  and  concentration  being  but  the  pro- 
logue. 


Censor  of  Telegraph  239 

The  camp  was  a  most  beautiful  one,  the  weather 
pleasant,  and  it  was  indeed  a  most  inspiring  sight 
to  see  the  long  unbroken  lines  of  blue  go  swinging 
by,  keeping  absolute  time  and  perfect  alignment 
to  the  inspiring  strains  of  some  air  like  "Hot  time 
in  the  old  town  to-night,"  or  'The  stars  and 
stripes  forever." 

I  had  started  in  with  my  regiment  and  expected 
to  remain  on  duty  with  it  until  the  end  of  the  war, 
sharing  all  its  perils  and  hardships,  doing  my  part 
in  the  fighting,  and  partaking  of  any  of  the  re- 
nown it  might  achieve  should  the  Dons  ever  be 
met.  But  "Man  proposes  and  God  disposes,"  and 
on  the  afternoon  of  May  2ist,  I  was  sitting  in  my 
tent  correcting  some  manuscript  when  a  very 
bright-eyed  colored  newsboy  came  along  and  said : 

"Buy  a  paper,  cap'n." 

That  was  the  day  that  a  wild  rumor  had  been 
in  circulation  that  Sampson  had  met  Cervera  in 
the  Bahama  Channel  and  completely  smashed  him, 
so  I  laid  down  my  manuscript  and  said : 

"Anything  in  there  about  Sampson  licking  Cer- 
vera?" 

"Naw,  sir,  dat  were  a  fake,  cap'n,  but  dere  is 
lots  of  oder  news  fur  you." 

"No,  kid,  I  don't  want  a  paper  to-night,  and 
besides  I'm  not  a  captain,  I'm  only  a  lieutenant." 


240         Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

"But  yer  may  be  one  some  day.  Please  buy 
one  cap'n,"  and  with  this  he  laid  a  paper  down  on 
my  table  (a  cracker  box).  I  was  about  to  shove 
it  aside  and  sharply  tell  him  to  skip  out  when  my 
eye  fell  upon : 

"Nominations  by  the  President." 

"To  be  captains  in  the  Signal  Corps,"  then  fol- 
lowed my  name.  I  bought  a  paper,  yes,  all  he 
had. 

On  May  27th,  I  was  ordered  to  proceed  at  once 
to  Tampa,  Florida,  reporting  upon  arrival  by  tele- 
graph to  the  chief  signal  officer  of  the  army  for  in- 
structions. Tuesday  morning,  the  2Qth  of  May,  I 
reported  my  arrival  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  morn- 
ing in  looking  around  the  camps,  renewing  old  ac- 
quaintances. I  supposed  of  course  that  I  was  to 
be  assigned  to  the  command  of  one  of  the  new  sig- 
nal companies  then  forming  to  take  part  in  the 
Santiago  campaign  and  was  filled  with  delight  at 
the  prospect,  but  about  eleven  o'clock  I  received 
an  order  from  General  Greely  directing  me  to  as- 
sume charge  of  the  telegraphic  censorship  at 
Tampa.  Three  civilians,  Heston  at  Jacksonville, 
Munn  at  Miami,  and  Fellers  at  Tampa,  were 
sworn  in  as  civilian  assistants  and  directed  to  re- 
port to  me,  thereafter  acting  wholly  under  my  or- 
ders. Mr.  B.  F.  Dillon,  superintendent  of  the 


Censor  of  Telegraph  241 

Western  Union  Telegraph  Company,  was  in 
Tampa,  and  I  had  a  long  conference  with  him.  He 
assured  me  of  his  confidence  and  cordial  support, 
and  placed  the  entire  resources  of  his  company  at 
my  disposal.  Operators  all  over  the  state  were  in- 
structed that  anything  I  ordered  was  to  be  obeyed 
and  then  the  work  began. 

The  idea  of  a  telegraphic  censorship  was  a  new 
and  irksome  one  to  the  great  American  people  and 
just  what  it  meant  was  hard  to  determine.  Much 
has  been  written  about  "Press  Censorship."  That 
term  was  a  misnomer.  There  never  was  an  at- 
tempt to  censor  the  great  American  press.  The 
newspapers  were  just  as  free  to  print  as  they  were 
before  the  war  started.  All  the  censorship  that 
existed  was  over  the  telegraph  lines  militarily  oc- 
cupied. A  government  officer  was  placed  in  charge 
and  his  word  was  absolute ;  he  could  only  be  over- 
ruled by  General  Greely,  the  Secretary  of  War  or 
the  President.  It  was  his  duty  to  watch  telegrams, 
regulate  the  kind  that  were  allowed  to  pass,  and 
to  see  that  no  news  was  sent  whereby  the  inter- 
ests of  the  government  or  the  safety  of  the  army 
might  suffer. 

The  instructions  I  received  were  general  in  their 
nature  and  in  all  specific  cases  arising,  my  judg- 
ment was  to  determine,  and  I  want  to  remark 


242  Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

right  here,  the  rapidity  with  which  those  specific 
cases  would  arise  was  enough  to  make  a  man  faint. 
The  first  rule  made  was  that  cipher  messages  or 
those  written  in  a  foreign  tongue  were  prohibited 
unless  sent  by  a  government  official  on  public  busi- 
ness. There  were  a  few  exceptions  to  this  rule. 
For  instance;  many  large  business  houses  have 
telegraphic  cipher  codes  for  the  transaction  of 
business,  and  it  was  not  the  policy  of  the  govern- 
ment to  interfere  in  any  manner  with  the  commer- 
cial affairs  of  the  country,  so  these  messages  were 
allowed  to  pass  when  the  code  book  was  presented 
to  the  censor  and  a  sworn  translation  made  in  his 
presence.  Spanish  messages  were  transmitted 
only  after  being  most  carefully  scanned  and  upon 
proof  of  the  loyalty  of  the  sender  or  receiver  and 
a  sworn  translation.  Not  a  single  private  mes- 
sage could  be  sent  by  any  one,  that  in  any  way 
hinted  at  the  time  of  the  departure  or  destination 
of  any  ship  or  body  of  troops.  Even  officers  about 
to  sail  away  were  not  allowed  to  telegraph  their 
wives  and  families.  If  they  had  a  pre-arranged 
code,  whereby  a  message  could  be  written  in  plain 
English,  there  was  no  way  to  stop  their  transmis- 
sion. Foreign  messages  were  watched  with  eagle 
eyes  and  many  and  many  a  one  was  gently  con- 


Censor  of  Telegraph  243 

signed  to  the  pigeon  hole,  when  the  contents  and 
meaning  were  not  plain. 

From  Key  West  (which  was  shortly  afterwards 
placed  in  my  charge)  there  ran  the  cable  to  Ha- 
vana, and  this  line  was  the  subject  of  an  extraordi- 
narily strict  espionage;  not  a  message  being  al- 
lowed to  pass  over  it  that  was  not  perfectly  plain 
in  its  meaning.  Mr.  J.  W.  Atkins  was  sworn  in  as 
my  assistant  at  Key  West,  and  thus  I  had  the  whole 
state  of  Florida  under  my  control.  All  the  lines 
from  the  southern  part  of  the  state  converge  to 
Jacksonville,  and  not  a  message  could  go  from  a 
point  within  the  state  to  one  out  of  it  without  first 
passing  under  the  scrutiny  of  either  myself  or  one 
of  my  sworn  assistants. 

My  office  was  in  H.  B.  Plant's  Tampa  Bay  ho- 
tel, and  there,  every  day,  from  seven  A.  M.  until 
twelve  midnight,  and  sometimes  one  and  two  in 
the  morning,  I  did  my  work.  My  own  long  ex- 
perience as  a  practical  telegrapher  stood  me  in 
good  stead  and  when  any  direct  work  was  to  be 
done  with  the  White  House  in  Washington,  or 
any  especially  important  messages  were  to  be  sent, 
I  personally  did  the  telegraphing.  At  the  Execu- 
tive Mansion  was  Colonel  B.  F.  Montgomery,  sig- 
nal corps,  in  charge  of  the  telegraph  office,  so 


244          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

when  anything  special  passed,  no  one  knew  it  but 
the  colonel  and  myself. 

The  Tampa  Bay  hotel  was  at  this  time  the  scene 
of  the  most  dazzling  and  brilliant  gaiety.  Shaf- 
ter's  5th  Corps  was  preparing  for  its  Santiago 
campaign  and  each  night  many  officers  and  their 
wives  would  meet  in  the  hotel  and  pass  the  time 
away  listening  to  the  music  of  some  regimental 
band  or  in  pleasant  conversation.  Men  who  had 
not  seen  each  other  since  the  close  of  the  great 
civil  war  renewed  old  acquaintances  and  spun  rem- 
iniscences by  the  yard.  Military  attaches  from 
all  the  countries  of  the  world  were  daily  arriving, 
and  their  gaudy  uniforms  added  a  dash  of  color 
to  the  already  brilliant  panorama.  The  bright 
gold  of  Captain  Paget,  the  English  naval  attache, 
the  deep  blue  of  Colonel  Yermeloff,  who  repre- 
sented Russia,  contrasted  vividly  with  the  blue  and 
yellow  of  Japanese  Major  Shiska,  and  the  scarlet 
and  black  of  Count  Goetzen  of  Germany.  But 
prominent  among  all  this  moving  panorama  of 
color  was  the  plain  blue  of  the  volunteer,  and  the 
brown  khaki  of  the  regular.  My  view  of  the 
scene  was  limited  to  fleeting  glimpses  from  my 
office  where  I  was  nightly  scanning  messages,  do- 
ing telegraphing  or  overlooking  30,000  or  40,000 
words  of  correspondents'  copy.  Preparations  for 


Censor  of  Telegraph  245 

the  embarkation  were  going  on  with  feverish 
haste,  and  orders  were  daily  expected  for  the  army 
to  move. 

There  were  at  this  time  nearly  two  hundred 
newspaper  correspondents  scattered  around 
through  the  hotel  and  in  the  various  camps.  They 
represented  papers  from  all  over  the  world,  and 
were  typical  representatives  of  the  brain  and  sinew 
of  the  newspaper  profession,  and  were  there  to 
accompany  the  army  when  it  moved.  Such  men 
as  Richard  Harding  Davis,  Stephen  Bonsai,  Fred- 
erick Remington,  Caspar  Whitney,  Grover  Flint, 
Edward  Marshall,  Maurice  Low,  John  Taylor, 
John  Klein,  Louis  Seibold,  George  Farman  and 
Mr.  Akers  of  the  London  papers,  and  scores  of 
others.  They  were  quick  and  active,  intensely 
patriotic,  alert  for  all  the  news,  a  "scoop"  for 
them  was  the  blood  of  life,  and  the  censorship 
came  like  a  wet  blanket.  In  a  small  way  I  had 
been  corresponding  for  a  paper  since  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war,  but  when  the  detail  as  censor 
came  I  gave  it  up  as  the  two  were  incompatible. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

MORE  CENSORSHIP 

I  MUST  confess  that  I  stood  in  awe  of  these 
newspaper  chaps,  because  I  knew  my  orders  would 
incense  them  and  if  they  took  it  into  their  heads 
to  roast  me  my  life  would  be  made  miserable  for 
a  good  many  days  to  come.  But  then  in  the  army 
orders  are  made  to  be  obeyed  and  I  determined 
not  to  show  partiality  to  any  of  them.  It  was  to 
be  "a  fair  field  and  no  favor,"  so  I  sent  word  and 
asked  them  to  meet  me  in  the  reading-room  of  the 
hotel  at  two  o'clock  that  afternoon.  They  came 
garbed  in  all  sorts  of  field  uniform  and  I  made  a 
little  speech  tellingwhat  they  might  send  and  what 
was  interdicted ;  I  remarked  that  the  work  was  as 
irksome  to  me  as  it  was  to  them,  but  orders  were 
orders  and  if  they  would  live  up  to  the  few  simple 
rules  they  would  make  my  task  much  easier  and 
save  themselves  lots  of  trouble.  Nothing  abso- 
lutely was  to  be  sent,  that  would  convey  in  any 
way  an  idea  of  the  number  of  troops  in  Tampa, 
the  time  of  arrival  or  departure  of  any  number  of 

246 


More  Censorship  247 

troops  or  ships,  and  above  all,  not  a  word  was  to 
be  sent  out  as  to  when  the  5th  Army  Corps  was  to 
sail.  When  I  had  finished  one  of  the  correspond- 
ents shook  his  head  in  a  deprecatory  way  and 
said: 

"Well,  captain,  we  thought  Lieutenant  Miley 
(my  predecessor)  was  bad  enough  but  you  can 
give  him  cards  and  spades  and  beat  him  out. 
You're  certainly  a  hummer  from  the  word  go,  and 
I  reckon  we'd  better  go  home." 

He  had  my  sympathy  but  that  was  all.  Every 
correspondent  had  a  war  department  pass;  these 
I  examined  and  registered  each  man. 

That  night  my  fun  commenced.  At  six  p.  M. 
they  began  to  file  stuff,  and  armed  with  a  big  blue 
pencil  I  started  to  slash  and  when  I  finished,  some 
of  their  sheets  looked  like  a  miniature  football 
field,  while  their  faces  betokened  blank  amazement 
and  intense  disgust.  Boiled  down,  the  first  night's 
batch  of  copy  consisted  of  a  glowing  description 
of  the  new  censor;  this  fiend  whose  weapon  was 
a  blue  pencil — his  glowing  red  whiskers — his  gog- 
gle eyes,  and  his  Titian-colored  hair.  One  of 
them  said : 

"This  afternoon  the  new  censor  stuck  his  head 
out  of  the  window  and  the  glow  was  so  great  from 
his  red  whiskers  and  auburn  locks  that  the  fire 


248          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

department  was  turned  out.  The  latest  report  is 
that  the  censor  was  unquenched,"  and  so  on.  They 
couldn't  send  any  news  so  they  sent  me.  Most  of 
them  were  space  writers  and  everything  went.  In 
many  ways  they  tried  to  evade  the  rules;  by  in- 
sinuations, hints  upon  which  a  bright  telegraph 
editor  could  raise  an  edifice  with  a  semblance  of 
truth,  but  the  blue  pencil  generally  got  in  its  work 
before  the  dispatch  reached  the  operator.  I  had 
two  stamps  made;  one  "O.  K.  for  transmission," 
and  the  other,  "REJECTED,  file,  do  not  return." 
Number  one  went  on  all  messages  for  transmis- 
sion and  number  two  on  all  others.  As  I  gaze  at 
these  relics  now  I  see  that  number  two  has  been 
used  much  more  than  its  companion. 

I  had  made  it  a  rule  that  each  paper  maintain- 
ing a  correspondent  in  Tampa  was  to  furnish  me 
with  a  copy  of  every  edition  of  the  paper.  As  a 
result,  in  a  few  days  I  had  a  mail  that  was  stu- 
pendous. A  clerk  was  on  hand  who  read  these 
papers,  marking  all  things  bearing  a  Tampa  date 
line.  Then  I  would  read  them  and  woe  betide  the 
correspondent  whose  paper  contained  contraband 
news  from  Tampa.  Off  went  his  head  and  his 
permit  was  recalled  for  a  certain  time  as  a  punish- 
ment. 

There  never  has  been  a  line  of  sentinels  so 


More  Censorship  249 

strong  but  that  some  one  could  break  through, 
and  there  was  undoubtedly  some  leakage  from 
Tampa,  but  to  see  news  of  actual  importance  from 
there  was  like  hunting  for  a  needle  in  a  haystack. 
The  mails  carried  out  some,  but  even  then  the  cor- 
respondents suffered.  Two  incidents  may  not  be 
amiss. 

One  young  chap  whose  keenness  ran  away  with 
his  judgment,  brought  me  a  stack  of  copy  one 
night,  almost  every  word  of  which  was  contra- 
band. The  blue  pencil  got  in  its  work  in  great 
shape  and  then  the  "rejected"  stamp  put  its  seal 
of  disapproval  on  the  message  and  it  was  filed 
away  with  many  others,  that  "were  not  dead,  but 
sleeping."  Mr.  Correspondent  muttered  some- 
thing about  "a  cussed  red-headed  censor  who 
wasn't  the  pope  and  could  be  beaten"  and  walked 
away.  I  thought  no  more  of  the  matter  until 
about  seven  days  thereafter  when  my  clerk  gave 
me  a  marked  copy  of  the  correspondent's  paper, 
and  there,  big  as  life,  under  a  Tampa  date  line  was 
the  rejected  dispatch.  He  had  left  my  office  and 
mailed  his  story  to  a  friend  living  up  in  Georgia, 
and  it  was  telegraphed  by  him  from  there.  You 
see,  Georgia  was  beyond  my  jurisdiction.  He  had 
surely  made  a  "scoop ;"  he  had  sown  the  wind  and 
that  night  he  reaped  the  whirlwind,  because  I 


250         Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

promptly  suspended  him  from  correspondents' 
privileges,  and  forbade  him  the  use  of  the  wires. 
General  Greely  upheld  me  in  this  as  in  all  other 
cases  and  for  ten  days  I  allowed  him  to  ruminate 
over  his  offence,  while  his  paper  was  cussing  him 
out  for  failing  to  send  in  stuff.  Then  I  restored 
him  to  his  former  status,  first  making  him  sign 
a  pledge  on  honor  that  he  would  abide  forever 
thereafter  by  the  censorship  rules. 

Another  young  man  who  represented  a  Cincin- 
nati daily,  walked  into  the  express  office  in  Tampa 
one  evening  and  gave  the  agent  a  package  say- 
ing: 

"Say,  old  chap,  have  your  messenger  running 
north  to-night  give  this  to  the  first  operator  after 
crossing  the  Georgia  line  and  tell  him  to  send  it 
to  my  paper.  It's  a  big  scoop  and  I  want  to  get 
it  through." 

Of  course,  the  "old  chap"  was  built  just  that 
way.  He  took  the  message  and  in  five  minutes  it 
was  reposing  gently  in  my  desk.  I  then  quickly 
sent  out  a  telegram  to  all  my  censors  taking  away 
the  correspondent's  privileges  until  further  orders. 

That  night  full  of  innocence — and  beer — he 
walked  into  the  Tampa  city  office  and  handed  Cen- 
sor Fellers  a  message  for  his  paper,  just  as  a  sort 


More  Censorship  251 

of  a  bluff.  Fellers  grinned  at  him  quietly  and 
said: 

"Sorry,  Mr.  J — ,  but  Captain  B — has  just  sus- 
pended you  from  use  of  the  telegraph  until  further 
orders." 

In  a  very  few  minutes  Mr.  J —  appeared  at  my 
office,  blustering  like  a  Kansas  cyclone,  and  de- 
manded to  know  why  I  had  dared  to  treat  him 
thus  ?  I  simply  picked  up  his  copy  and  showed  it 
to  him,  saying : 

"This  is  your  handwriting,  I  believe,  Mr.  J — ." 

The  props  dropped  out  from  under  him  and  he 
said: 

"Well,  by  thunder,  you  censor  mail,  telegraph 
and  express ;  I  reckon  if  I  attempted  to  send  any- 
thing by  carrier  pigeon  you'd  catch  it  and  put  that 
d — d  old  'rejected'  stamp  on  it." 

"No,"  I  replied,  "but  I  might  possibly  use  it  on 
a  mule." 

In  spite  of  his  pleadings  and  promises  he  was 
hung  up  for  ten  days. 

It  must  be  said,  however,  that  such  men  as  these 
were  rarities :  most  of  the  men,  especially  those 
representing  the  great  dailies,  were  only  too  will- 
ing to  abide  by  orders.  They  kicked  hard — natu- 
rally and  rightfully — because  news  that  they  were 
forbidden  to  send  from  Tampa  was  sent  broad- 


252          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

cast  from  Washington  as  coming  from  the  war 
department.  Oh !  yes  they  kicked  so  much  that  it 
seemed  as  if  my  auburn  locks  would  turn  gray, 
but  the  protest  was  against  the  censorship  in  gen- 
eral and  not  against  me.  I  was  enough  of  a  news- 
paper man  to  fully  appreciate  their  position,  and 
more  than  one  message  went  from  me  to  General 
Greely  asking  if  Washington  could  not  be  cen- 
sored as  well  as  Tampa.  No !  Army  officers  had 
no  power  to  stop  the  mouths  of  the  high  civil  of- 
ficials of  the  government,  and  so  the  dance  went 
on. 

And  the  managing  editors  would  flood  their 
correspondents  with  telegrams  of  inquiry  as  to 
why  they  did  not  send  the  news  that  daily  came 
from  Washington  as  having  originated  in  Tampa ; 
and  the  correspondents  would  come  to  me  and  I 
would  endeavor  to  calm  them  down  as  best  I 
could.  Then,  incidentally,  the  managing  editors 
would  take  a  fling  at  me  personally,  and  I  would 
receive  a  polite  telegram  of  protest  but  to  no  avail. 

Finally,  one  night  the  trouble  culminated,  and 
conjointly  the  correspondents  sent  a  long  telegram 
to  General  Greely  asking  if  he  could  not  right  the 
seeming  injustice.  They  did  not  mind  being 
beaten  in  a  fair  field,  but  they  did  hate  to  be 
"scooped"  by  Washington  correspondents  who 


More  Censorship  253 

were  having  an  easy  time.  Almost  every  man 
signed  the  protest  and  then  it  was  brought  to  me, 
and  I  quickly  O.  K'd.  it.  Shortly  afterwards  a 
number  of  them  came  to  my  office  and  assured  me 
that  it  was  not  against  me  personally  they  wTere 
kicking,  and  Louis  Seibold,  of  the  New  York 
World,  sent  General  Greely  a  message  saying : 

"I  don't  like  your  blooming  censor  business  one 
bit,  but  if  you  have  to  have  it,  you've  got  the  best 
man  for  it  in  the  army  right  here  in  Tampa,"  or 
words  to  that  effect.  Many  others  sent  similar 
messages  but  not  quite  so  outspoken.  General 
Greely  appreciated  their  position  and  said  so,  but 
was  unable  to  change  the  condition  of  affairs  and 
so  matters  continued. 

All  this  time  feverish  preparations  were  being 
made  to  rush  off  Shafter's  expedition.  June  7th 
wras  a  very  hard  and  trying  day,  and  at  six  o'clock 
in  the  evening  I  had  just  seated  myself  for  a  hasty 
bite  of  dinner  when  a  messenger  came  to  me  from 
the  telegraph  office  saying  that  the  White  House 
wanted  me  at  once.  I  went  to  the  key  and  was 
informed  that  the  President  wanted  to  talk  to  Gen- 
erals Miles  and  Shafter  and  that  the  greatest  se- 
crecy must  be  maintained.  After  sending  word 
to  the  generals,  I  sent  all  the  operators  out  of  the 
office,  closed  the  windows  and  turned  down  the 


254          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

sounder  so  that  it  could  not  be  heard  three  feet 
away.  When  General  Shafter  came  in  he  had  an 
officer  stationed  in  the  hall  so  that  no  one  could  ap- 
proach in  that  direction.  General  Miles  came  in 
shortly  afterwards  and  the  door  was  closed.  We 
all  sat  in  front  of  the  table,  General  Miles  on  my 
right,  and  General  Shafter  on  the  left.  Lieuten- 
ant Miley  of  General  Shafter's  staff  stood  behind 
his  chief.  It  was  a  scene  long  to  be  remembered. 
General  Shafter  was  dressed  in  the  plain  blue  army 
fatigue  uniform,  its  strict  sombreness  being  re- 
lieved only  by  the  two  gleaming  silver  stars  on  his 
shoulder  straps.  General  Miles,  the  commanding 
general,  was  in  conventional  tuxedo  dress,  and 
looked  every  inch  the  gallant  soldier  and  gentle- 
man that  he  is.  From  the  little  telegraph  instru- 
ment on  the  table  ran  a  single  strand  of  copper 
wire,  out  in  the  dark  night,  over  the  pine  tops  of 
Florida  and  Georgia,  over  the  mountains  of  the 
Carolinas,  and  hills  and  vales  of  Virginia,  into  the 
Executive  Mansion  at  Washington.  In  the  office 
of  the  White  House  were  the  President,  the  Sec- 
retary of  War,  and  Adjutant-General  Corbin. 
The  key  there  was  worked  by  Colonel  Montgom- 
ery, so  if  there  ever  was  an  official  wire  this  was 
one. 


More  Censorship  255 

When  all  was  ready  I  told  the  White  House  to 
"go  ahead." 

The  first  message  was  from  the  Secretary  of 
War  to  General  Shafter  directing  him  to  sail  at 
once,  as  he  was  needed  at  the  destination  which 
was  known  at  this  time  only  to  about  five  officers 
in  Tampa.  General  Shafter  replied  that  he  would 
be  ready  to  sail  the  next  morning  at  daylight. 
Then,  by  the  President's  direction,  a  message  was 
repeated  that  had  been  received  from  Admiral 
Sampson,  saying  he  had  that  day  bombarded  the 
outer  defenses  of  Santiago,  and  if  ten  thousand 
men  were  there  the  city  and  fleet  would  fall  within 
forty-eight  hours.  The  President  further  directed 
that  General  Shafter  should  sail  as  indicated  by 
him  with  not  less  than  ten  thousand  men.  Then 
followed  an  interchange  of  messages,  more  or  less 
personal  in  their  nature,  between  the  generals  and 
the  Washington  contingent.  Finally  all  was  over 
and  the  line  was  cut  off.  The  whole  conversation 
lasted  about  fifty  minutes,  but  the  beginning  of 
new  history  was  started  in  that  time  and  the  cur- 
tain was  going  up  on  the  grand  drama  of  war. 
All  the  time  this  was  going  on  I  could  hear  faintly 
the  strains  of  'Auf  Wiedersehn,'  together  with 
the  merry  jest  of  the  officers  and  the  light  laughter 
of  the  women.  Brave  men,  braver  women — soon 


256          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

their  laughter  was  turned  to  tears  and  many  of 
the  officers  who  went  out  of  the  Tampa  Bay  hotel 
on  that  warm  June  night  are  now  sleeping  their 
last  sleep,  having  given  up  their  lives  that  their 
country's  honor  might  live.  The  train  carrying 
the  headquarters  to  Port  Tampa  left  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  There  was  very  little  sleep  that 
night  and  the  next  morning  the  big  hotel  was  well 
nigh  deserted.  And  all  this  time  the  destination 
of  the  fleet  was  unknown  to  all  but  those  high  in 
rank  and  myself. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

CENSORSHIP  CONCLUDED 

MY  OWN  sleep  on  that  night  was  limited  to 
about  two  hours  snatched  between  work,  and  the 
following  morning  was  a  very  busy  one.  About 
once  every  hour  I  would  report  to  the  White 
House  how  things  were  progressing  at  the  port. 
As  the  big  transports  received  their  load  of  living 
freight,  one  by  one  they  would  pull  out  in  the 
stream  and  anchor,  waiting  until  the  time  should 
come  when  all  would  be  ready,  and  then  like  a  big 
swarm  they  would  pull  out  together.  They  did 
not  sail  at  daylight;  unexpected  delays  occurred, 
and  eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock 
passed  and  still  they  had  not  sailed,  although  the 
twelve  o'clock  report  said  they  would  be  gone  by 
twelve-thirty. 

At  one  o'clock  a  messenger  came  hurriedly  to 
me  and  said  the  White  House  wanted  me  at  the 
key  at  once.  When  I  answered,  Colonel  Mont- 
gomery said,  "The  President  -wants  to  know  if  you 
can  stop  that  fleet?"  Now  the  wire  to  Port  Tampa 
25? 


258          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

was  on  a  table  right  back  of  me  and  calling  him 
with  my  left  hand  I  said : 

"Can  you  get  General  Miles  or  General  Shaf- 
ter  ?"  and  with  my  right  hand  I  said  to  the  Presi- 
dent, "I'll  try,  wait  a  minute." 

Then  said  the  White  House,  "It  is  imperative 
that  the  fleet  be  stopped  at  once. 

From  Port  Tampa,  "No  sir,  I  can't  find  General 
Miles  or  General  Shafter." 

I  replied,  "Have  all  the  transports  pulled  out  of 
the  slip?" 

"Yes  sir,  so  far  as  I  can  see  they  are  all  gone." 

From  Washington,  "Have  you  stopped  the 
fleet?" 

"Wait  a  minute — will  let  you  know  later,  am 
trying  now." 

To  Port  Tampa,  "Go  out  and  find  a  tug  and 
get  this  message  to  either  General  Miles  or  Gen- 
eral Shafter,  'The  President  directs  that  you  stop 
the  sailing  of  Shatter's  army  until  further  orders.' 
Now  fly." 

Just  then  Port  Tampa  said,  "Here  comes  Gen- 
eral Miles  now,"  and  in  a  minute  more  the  mes- 
sage was  delivered  and  the  fleet  stopped.  I  then 
reported  to  the  President : 

"I  have  delivered  your  message  to   General 


Censorship  Concluded  259 

Miles  and  the  fleet  will  not  sail  until  further  or- 
ders." 

They  came  back  wondering  what  had  stopped 
them  and  that  evening  we  learned  of  the  appear- 
ance of  the  "Phantom"  Spanish  fleet  in  the  Nicho- 
las Channel  heading  westward.  "Cervera  wasn't 
bottled  up  in  Santiago,"  said  some,  "and  before 
morning  he  will  be  here  and  blow  us  out  of  the 
water."  Great  was  the  consternation  and  as  a 
precaution  all  the  ships  were  ordered  back  into 
the  slip.  It  must  be  said,  however,  that  General 
Miles  never  had  any  idea  that  the  Spanish  fleet 
was  approaching  our  shores. 

The  transport  fleet  was  tied  up  and  then  fol- 
lowed six  days  of  weary  waiting,  and  the  duties 
of  the  censor  became  more  arduous  than  ever,  and 
the  utmost  vigilance  was  exercised.  Private  mes- 
sages wrere  almost  all  hung  up,  in  fact,  very  little 
else  than  government  business  was  allowed  to  pass 
over  the  wires.  And  yet,  every  day  for  a  week, 
copies  of  the  daily  papers  that  reached  me  had, 
under  flaming  headlines,  the  startling  news  that 
Shafter's  fleet  had  sailed — destination — Havana, 
San  Juan,  Matanzas, — yes — even  the  Spanish 
coast.  All  this  was  announced  from  Washington, 
and  made  the  correspondents  snort;  they  made 
every  excuse  to  let  their  papers  know  they  were 


260          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

still  there.  They  wanted  money,  they  wanted  to 
send  messages  to  their  families,  in  fact,  they 
wanted  everything  under  the  sun,  but  to  no  avail. 
Finally,  on  the  i4th  of  June  the  army  sailed  away, 
filled  with  hope  and  courage,on  their  mission  that 
resulted  in  victory  for  the  American  arms;  but 
that  was  a  foregone  conclusion,  while  we  less  for- 
tunate ones  were  left  behind  to  pray  for  the  suc- 
cess that  we  knew  would  be  theirs. 

The  correspondents  were  all  on  the  transport 
"Olivette,"  and  just  before  they  pulled  out  I  sent 
them  a  message  saying  I  would  release  the  news 
that  night  about  the  sailing  of  the  fleet  only,  and 
they  might  file  their  messages.  They  did  in  large 
numbers  and  here-  is  where  the  joke  came  in. 
When  the  messages  reached  the  papers  they 
thought  it  was  all  a  bluff  to  mislead  the  public, 
and  many  of  them  refused  to  publish  the  news, 
but  the  fleet  had  gone  this  time  for  certain.  As 
late  as  two  days  afterwards  I  received  messages 
from  the  managing  editors  of  two  of  the  greatest 
papers  in  the  country,  asking  me  if  the  fleet  had 
really  sailed.  I  assured  them  it  had.  One  thing 
is  certain,  the  destination  of  that  fleet  was  a  well- 
kept  secret.  Mr.  Richard  Harding  Davis  in  his 
admirable  book  on  the  Cuban  and  Porto  Rican 
Campaigns,  says  that  credit  is  due  the  censor  be- 


Censorship  Concluded  261 

cause  it  was  so  well  kept.  I  am  afraid  that  this  is 
about  the  only  good  word  the  censor  ever  received 
from  the  said  Mr.  Davis. 

The  "Olivette,"  on  which  the  correspondents 
sailed,  was  the  last  boat  to  leave  Port  Tampa. 
She  left  about  six-thirty  P.  M.  in  the  glory  of  the 
setting  sun  of  a  tropical  evening.  About  five- 
thirty  P.  M.  Mr.  Edward  Marshall,  that  prince  of 
good  fellows,  who  represented  the  New  York 
Journal,  came  into  my  office  to  write  a  message 
for  his  paper,  to  be  left  with  me  and  sent  when 
the  story  was  released.  Marshall  was  a  typical 
newspaper  man  and  a  thorough  American,  and 
had  just  returned  from  New  York  where  he  had 
been  in  attendance  upon  the  sick-bed  of  his  wife. 
He  was  very  anxious  to  get  his  story  written  be- 
fore he  sailed.  I  knew  the  "Olivette"  was  about 
to  pull  out,  and  if  he  expected  to  go  on  her  it  was 
high  time  he  was  moving.  As  Port  Tampa  was 
nine  miles  away,  I  told  him  to  fly  and  cut  his  story 
short  or  send  it  from  Port  Tampa.  He  thanked 
me  and  reached  Port  Tampa  just  in  time  to  save 
being  left.  It  was  this  same  Edward  Marshall 
who  so  daringly  pushed  to  the  front  during  the 
Guasimas  fight  of  the  Rough  Riders,  and  was  se- 
riously wounded  by  a  Mauser  bullet  near  his  spine. 
He  was  supposed  to  be  dying,  but  true  to  his 


262          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

newspaper  training  and  full  of  loyalty  to  his  pa- 
per, he  dictated  a  message  to  his  journal  between 
the  puffs  of  a  cigarette,  when  it  was  supposed  each 
breath  would  be  his  last.  But  thank  God  he  did 
not  die,  and  now  gives  promise  of  many  years  of 
useful  life.  I  have  often  thought  if  I  had  not 
warned  him  in  time  to  go  he  would  not  have  been 
shot;  but  then  all  war  is  uncertain,  and  in  warn- 
ing him  I  was  only,  "Doing  unto  others  as  I  would 
be  done  by." 

During  all  these  stirring  times  just  described 
there  were  two  women  correspondents,  poor  souls, 
who  were  indeed  sad  and  lonely.  They  were  very 
ambitious  and  wanted  to  go  to  Cuba  with  the 
army,  but  the  War  Department  wisely  forbade 
any  such  a  move  and  then  my  trouble  began.  At 
all  hours  of  the  day  or  night  I  was  pestered  by 
these  same  women.  One  of  them  represented  a 
Canadian  paper  and  was  most  anxious  to  go.  She 
tried  every  expedient  and  tackled  every  man  or 
woman  of  influence  that  came  along.  Even  dear 
old  Clara  Barton  did  not  escape  her  importunities. 
She  wanted  to  go  as  a  Red  Cross  nurse,  but  didn't 
know  anything  about  nursing.  However,  I  reckon 
she  was  as  good  as  some  of  the  women  who  did 
go.  She  was  an  Irish  girl  with  rich  red  hair,  and 
as  mine  was  of  an  auburn  tinge  we  didn't  get 


Censorship  Concluded  263 

along  worth  a  cent.  She  didn't  do  much  tele- 
graphing but  sent  all  of  her  stuff  by  mail.  How- 
ever, it  was  her  intention  to  send  one  telegram  to 
her  paper  and  "scoop"  all  the  other  chaps  in  so 
doing.  She  wrote  a  letter  to  her  managing  editor 
in  Toronto  and  told  him  there  was  a  censor  down 
there  who  thought  he  could  bottle  up  Florida  as 
regards  news,  but  she  intended  to  outwit  him. 
Particular  attention  was  being  paid  so  as  to  pre- 
serve the  secrecy  of  the  sailing  day  of  Shatter's 
army.  Cipher  and  code  messages  bearing  on  this 
occurrence  were  to  be  strictly  interdicted.  But 
that  didn't  make  any  difference  to  her;  she  could 
beat  that  game.  So  on  the  day  the  fleet  actually 
sailed  she  would  send  a  message  to  her  paper  say- 
ing, "Send  me  six  more  jubilee  books."  This 
would  indicate  that  the  fleet  had  really  gone.  Bril- 
liant scheme  from  the  brain  of  a  very  bright 
woman,  but  she  lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  Messrs. 
Carranza  and  Polo  y  Bernabe  were  at  that  time 
in  Canada  spying  on  the  United  States,  and  that 
all  the  Canadian  mail  was  most  carefully  watched. 
Such,  however,  was  the  case,  and  in  a  short  time 
the  contents  of  her  letter  were  known  to  General 
Greely,  and  by  him  communicated  to  me.  One 
evening  Miss  Correspondent  was  standing  in  the 


264          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

lobby  of  the  Tampa  Bay  hotel  surrounded  by  a 
group  of  her  friends,  when  I  approached  and  said : 

"Excuse  me,  Miss  J — ,  but  I  should  like  to 
speak  to  you  for  a  moment" 

"Well,  what  is  it,  pray?  Surely  you  haven't 
anything  to  say  but  what  my  friends  can  hear, 
have  you?"  Sassy,  wasn't  she? 

"Oh!  well  if  that  is  the  case?"  I  replied,  "I  am 
sorry  to  inform  you  that  you  are  suspended  from 
correspondent's  privileges  and  from  the  use  of 
the  telegraph  until  further  orders." 

"And  what  for  pray?" 

"I  don't  just  exactly  know,"  I  answered,  "but 
I  think  it  has  something  to  do  with  sending  you 
'six  more  jubilee  books'  from  Canada." 

Well !  she  turned  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow, 
and  snapped  out,  "Goodness  gracious!  how  did 
yon — where  did  you  hear  that?" 

I  smiled  politely  and  walked  away.  The  next 
morning,  shortly  after  I  reached  my  office,  a  timid 
knock  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  I  yelled,  thinking  it  was  a  messen- 
ger boy.  In  walked  Miss  J — ,  woebegone,  crest- 
fallen and  disheartened,  with  a  letter  of  apology 
and  explanation.  I  forwarded  this  to  General 
Greely  and  kept  her  suspended  for  seven  days. 


Censorship  Concluded  265 

She  never  offended  again,  and  the  last  I  heard  of 
her  she  was  in  Key  West  gazing  with  longing  eyes 
towards  the  Pearl  of  the  Antilles.  She  never 
reached  there. 

The  other  woman  correspondent  was  different 
She  was  an  American  widow,  bright,  dashing  and 
vivacious.  She  had  heard  of  the  ogre  of  a  cen- 
sor; she  would  conquer  him  through  his  suscep- 
tibility. I'll  admit  that  the  censor  in  question 
was  susceptible  of  some  things — but  not  in  busi- 
ness matters.  One  day  she  filed  an  innocent  little 
telegram  to  her  paper,  saying,  ''For  ice  cream 
read  typhoid."  The  operator  glanced  at  it  and 
said,  "You'll  have  to  get  Captain  B — 's  O.  K.  on 
that  message  before  I  can  send  it." 

She  talked  sweetly  to  him,  but  that  didn't  hap- 
pen to  be  one  of  his  "susceptible"  days.  Then  she 
came  to  me,  and  as  my  "susceptibility"  had  run  to 
a  pretty  low  ebb  I  refused  to  permit  the  message 
to  go  on,  on  account  of  its  hidden  meaning. 

"Oh,  pshaw !  Captain,  I  wrote  a  story  for  my 
paper  and  in  it  described  the  death  of  a  man  from 
the  effects  of  eating  too  much  ice  cream,  and  now 
I  learn  that  he  died  of  typhoid  fever." 

I  was  pretty  hard-headed  that  morning  and 
couldn't  assist  the  lady  and  she  left  the  office  vow- 


266          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

ing  vengeance.  The  next  edition  of  her  paper 
contained  the  most  charmingly  sarcastic  article 
about  the  red-headed,  white-shoed  censor  I  have 
ever  seen,  but  I  had  become  case-hardened  by  this 
time  and  did  not  mind  it  in  the  least. 

It  might  be  supposed  that  as  soon  as  the  army 
had  sailed  and  the  correspondents  had  gone,  that 
the  censorship  duties  would  be  lighter.  They 
were,  officially,  but  otherwise  they  became  harder 
than  ever.  The  army  had  gone,  but  the  women 
had  been  left  behind.  The  husbands  were  away — 
fighting — dying — while  the  wives  were  waiting 
with  dry  eyes  and  aching  hearts  for  the  news  that 
would  mean  life  or  death  to  them.  There  were 
some  forty  wives,  daughters,  and  sweethearts  re- 
maining in  the  Tampa  Bay  hotel,  and  to  them  the 
censor  became  a  most  interesting  party.  They 
knew  that  any  news  that  came  to  Tampa  would 
come  through  him,  and  they  wanted  it  -vhether 
his  orders  would  allow  him  to  divulge  it  or  not. 
Before,  I  had  to  contend  with  the  importunities 
of  zealous  correspondents,  now  it  was  the  longing 
eyes  of  sweet  women  whose  hearts  were  breaking 
with  suspense,  whose  lives  had  stood  still  since 
the  1 4th  day  of  June  when  the  fleet  sailed  away. 
Of  the  two,  I  would  rather  contend  with  the  for- 
mer. 


Censorship  Concluded  267 

The  long  and  trying  days  dragged  slowly  by 
and  still  no  news.  Finally,  on  the  22nd  of  June, 
it  was  known  that  the  army  was  landing;  June 
24th,  the  Guasimas  fight  of  the  cavalry  division 
took  place,  and  from  that  time  on  life  was  made 
miserable  for  me  by  importunate  women.  Many 
telegrams — yes,  hundreds  of  them — came  to  me 
every  day,  and  each  time  one  of  those  cursed  little 
yellow  envelopes  was  put  in  my  hands,  if  I  hap- 
pened to  be  in  the  lobby  of  the  hotel,  I  could  feel 
forty  or  fifty  pairs  of  anxious  eyes  concentrated 
on  me,  as  if  to  read  from  the  expression  of  my 
face  whether  the  news  was  good  or  bad.  Colonel 
Michler  of  General  Miles's  staff  was  there,  and  if 
we  should  happen  to  be  together  talking,  the 
women  would  surmise  that  the  news  was  bad ;  and 
many  times  their  surmises  were  just  about  right. 
One  sweet  little  black-eyed  woman  always  said  she 
could  tell  from  my  face  whether  I  was  bluffing  or 
not.  July  ist,  2nd,  and  3rd,  were  very  gloomy 
days  for  we  poor  chaps  who  had  been  left  behind 
— and  for  the  women.  We — they — knew  the 
fight  was  on,  that  men  were  heroically  dying,  and 
we  also  knew  that  the  army  was  in  a  hard  way. 
Strive  as  we  might,  no  gleam  of  hope  could  be 
culled  from  the  news  of  those  three  days.  Cer- 
vera's  fleet  was  still  in  the  harbor  of  Santiago,  and 


268          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

the  army  not  only  had  the  Spanish  troops  to  fight 
but  the  navy  as  well.  Flesh  and  blood  might 
stand  the  rain  of  Mauser  bullets,  but  they  could 
not  stand  rapid-fire  guns  and  eight-inch  shells. 
The  third  of  July  dragged  by,  and  at  eleven  o'clock 
Colonel  Michler  retired  for  the  night  not  feeling 
in  a  very  pleasant  frame  of  mind.  The  lobby  was 
well  nigh  deserted,  but  Colonels  Smith  and  Powell 
and  a  few  more  officers  sat  by  one  of  the  big  open 
doors  having  a  farewell  smoke  and  chat  before 
going  to  bed.  At  eleven-thirty  I  was  standing 
by  the  desk  talking  to  the  clerk,  when  the  night 
operator  came  charging  out  of  the  office  and  gave 
me  a  little  piece  of  yellow  paper.  I  quickly  opened 
it  and  read,  "Sampson  entirely  destroyed  Cerve- 
ra's  fleet  this  morning."  News  like  that,  if  true, 
was  too  good  to  keep,  so  I  went  into  the  telegraph 
office  and  had  a  wire  cut  through  to  the  New  York 
office  and  asked  for  a  confirmation  or  denial  of 
the  report.  They  confirmed  it  and  gave  me  the 
text  of  the  official  report.  I  bounded  out  in  the 
hall  and  shouted  out  the  glorious  news  at  the  top 
of  my  voice.  Gloom  was  dispelled  instanter,  and 
joy  reigned  supreme.  At  just  twelve  o'clock  mid- 
night, we  drank  a  toast  to  the  army  and  navy,  and 
to  our  country. 

Santiago  surrendered  and  the  army  went  to 


Censorship  Concluded  269 

Porto  Rico  only  to  be  stopped  in  the  midst  of  a 
most  brilliant  campaign  by  the  signing  of  the 
protocol.  The  censorship  was  ended  and  willingly 
did  I  lay  down  the  blue  pencil  and  take  up  my 
sword. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

CONCLUSION 

I  CANNOT  refrain  from  concluding  this  little 
volume  by  a  tribute  to  the  telegraphers  of  the 
country. 

It  is  but  fifty-five  years  since  Professor  S.  F.  B. 
Morse  electrified  the  civilized  world  by  the  com- 
pletion of  his  electro-magnetic  telegraph.  Since 
that  time  great  improvements  have  been  made  un- 
til now  it  is  difficult  to  recognize  in  the  delicate 
mechanisms  of  the  relay,  key,  sounder,  duplex, 
quad,  and  multiplex,  the  principle  first  promul- 
gated in  the  old  Morse  register.  Its  influence  was 
at  once  felt  in  all  walks  of  life ;  it  was  an  art  to  be 
an  expert  telegrapher.  Keeping  pace  with  the 
strides  of  advancing  civilization,  the  telegraph  has 
spread  its  slender  wires,  until  now  almost  the  en- 
tire world  is  connected  by  its  magnetism.  Away 
back  in  the  early  fifties  when  railroads  and  com- 
forts were  few,  while  danger  and  trials  were 
plenty,  these  faithful  knights  of  the  key  carried 
on  their  work  under  the  most  adverse  circum- 
stances. Since  its  first  appearance  it  has  mani- 
festly been  the  possessor  of  millions  of  secrets, 
870 


Conclusion  271 

public  and  private.  In  times  of  joy  you  flash  your 
congratulations  to  distant  relatives  or  friends;  in 
minutes  of  sorrow  and  tribulation,  your  message 
of  sympathy  is  quickly  carried  as  a  balm  to  ach- 
ing hearts ;  in  the  worries  of  business  its  use  is  of 
the  most  vital  importance;  and  while  you  are 
peacefully  slumbering  on  some  swiftly  moving 
railroad  train  the  telegraph  is  one  of  the  princi- 
pal means  of  insuring  a  safe  and  speedy  .trip. 
Pick  up  your  favorite  daily  paper — the  one  that 
is  always  reliable — read  the  market  or  press  re- 
ports accurately  printed,  and  then  think  that  the 
telegraph  does  it  all.  Read  news  from  foreign 
countries — from  out-of-the-way  places — and  think 
of  the  miles  of  mountains,  deserts,  plains  and  val- 
leys passed  over ;  think  of  the  slender  cable  down 
deep  in  the  throbbing  bosom  of  the  ocean  and  of 
the  little  spark  that  brings  the  news  to  your  door ; 
and  then  reflect  on  the  men  whose  abilities  accom- 
plish these  results.  Think  of  his  work  in  the 
countries  where  it  is  so  hot  that  it  seems  as  if  the 
land  beyond  the  River  Styx  is  at  his  elbow;  in 
lands  where  it  is  always  cold  and  the  days  and 
nights  are  long.  In  season  and  out;  in  times  of 
death,  pestilence  and  famine,  with  never  a  mur- 
mur, these  sturdy,  loyal  men,  and  true-hearted 
women  do  their  work.  All  these  are  incidents  of 


272          Tales  of  the  Telegraph 

peace.  Now  think,  when  war,  grim-visaged  and 
terrible,  spreads  its  mighty  power  over  the  earth. 
What  is  responsible  for  the  news  of  victory? 
What  brings  you  the  list  you  so  anxiously  scan 
of  the  dead  and  wounded  ?  What  means  are  em- 
ployed by  the  subdivisions  of  the  army  in  the  field 
to  keep  in  constant  communication,  so  that  they 
may  act  as  the  integral  parts  of  an  harmonious 
whole?  In  the  late  Spanish-American  war  what 
first  brought  news,  authentic  in  character,  to  the 
Navy  Department  that  Cervera  with  his  doomed 
fleet  was  in  Santiago  harbor?  And  during  the 
dark  and  trying  days  from  June  22nd  until  July 
1 4th,  the  telegraphers  of  the  army — the  signal 
corps  men — were  ceaseless  and  tireless  in  their 
efforts,  and  as  a  result  within  five  minutes  of  its 
being  sent,  a  message  would  be  in  Washington. 
While  the  army  slept  they  worked,  without  any 
regard  to  self  or  comfort.  And  to-day  in  the  far- 
off  Philippine  islands  they  are  still  striving  with 
the  best  results.  The  telegraphers  are  honest, 
loyal,  patriotic  men — a  little  Bohemian,  perhaps, 
in  their  tastes — and  deserve  a  better  recognition 
for  the  good  work  they  do. 

"30" 

"Filed,  2 135  A.  M." 
"Received,  2 143  A.  M." 


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